


Vikings

by OccasionallyCreative



Series: Universes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Humor, Light Angst, Parenthood, Parentlock, Post-His Last Vow, Post-The Sign of Three, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-01-27 02:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1711460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After splitting from Tom, Molly, wishing to take control of her own life, decides to have a child through artificial insemination. A certain consulting detective isn't entirely happy about the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by an anonymous prompter who, to put it basically, asked for a Canon!Sherlolly AU based on the 2010 movie, "The Switch" (a really good movie, for a romantic comedy. I highly recommend it.) This fic will be a two-parter, and the next part should be up soon enough; that's if my other WIPs don't drown me in feelings. Rated Teen for swearing and other *ahem* stuff. Enjoy, and don't forget to comment/bookmark/leave kudos if you so wish!
> 
> Post The Sign of Three; set in the month between TSOT and His Last Vow and beyond.

_Fuck._

That was the word that passed through the fuzzy, plagued-by-alcohol brain of Sherlock Holmes as he, with an ever increasing feeling of dread, watched the thick, gooey liquid slip from the precious bottle and down the drain of the bathroom sink.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, frozen with his hand hovering over the edge of the sink, watching the water pool at the base. Trouble—that was what he was in—a _lot_ of trouble. He sat back onto the floor with a dull _thump_ , his blurred vision just about catching the words scribbled onto the label.

_D… Do… Don…_

She would hate him. Everyone would hate him. Even his mother would—no. She wouldn't have to know. Why would he tell her? It wasn't like she'd wish to know what her younger son did in his spare time away from the family home. Especially not if he got up to such activities as this. Well, he didn't, so that was good. Maybe.

Sherlock groaned and ran his fingers through his curls. He stared at the bottle again, but the words still made no sense. They were jumbled, barely intelligible. Just how much alcohol had he consumed? John Watson had to be behind this. He'd obviously doubled his alcohol intake, shoved him inside here and waited for the results.

No, that wasn't possible. He wouldn't be so… whatever it was that deceitful people were. There was only one person who had led him to this point, slumped on the floor on Molly Hooper's bathroom, steaming drunk and with an empty sperm donor bottle in his hand.

That one person was, unfortunately, him.

* * *

"Sherlock I wanted to talk to you about something—"

Her following words were cut off by the sound of the electric saw against the skull of the corpse between them, and Sherlock grunted in reply. He could've sworn to see Molly roll her eyes as she continued to work, but he decided to ignore that for the time being.

"I was wondering if you could get me a head," he said after a moment. "I need to look into the effects—"

" _Sherlock,_ " Molly said impatiently and she switched off the saw and flipped up her visor. "This is important."

Finally he looked up, only to immediately frown as he watched her. Twitching of hands, crinkle of brow; something was wrong. Yet she was smiling too; a genuine smile, one of excitement. So whatever was wrong was also something she felt was right. Hm. Puzzling.

Molly smiled wider.

"I'm having a baby."

"You're… pregnant?" Sherlock asked with a swallow. He wasn't envious, not at all. Nor was he surprised. Nor was he currently furiously trying to deduce who the father was; and even if he was that all blew away with Molly's next sentence.

"Christ, not yet! No, I'm – well, after all of that stuff with Tom, I just felt like – I'm not explaining this properly. I _am_ going to have a baby; I just don't know who the father is yet."

Sherlock nodded curtly and gave a shrug. "Sexual promiscuity isn't uncommon these days, it's—"

Molly's cheeks and neck flushed a deep red and she shook her head, flapping her hands a little.

"No, it's nothing like that! I'm going by donor."

"Donor."

"Yeah," Molly said with a nod. "Artificial insemination. I'm sure you've heard of it?"

"And you're telling me because?"

"Because you're my friend and I want you to know," Molly said simply.

Sherlock gave a false smile, followed by a quick nod. It wasn't his place to dictate what Molly wanted or what her decisions were. If she wanted a child, then she wanted a child. She was a logical woman; it was only sensible that she—feeling herself to be somewhat unlucky in the department of romantic relationships—would want to go for a more scientific method.

It was completely logical, and utterly sound in terms of planning. Easy, necessary to her needs and had little to no emotional attachment. It was the perfect arrangement for Molly Hooper, pathologist at St. Bart's Hospital.

That thought didn't provide any comfort for him. Nor did it stop him from clearing his throat and muttering a small excuse for his departure before he swept from the morgue.

* * *

He spent longer than he would've cared to admit on his reflection of Molly's decision. From the moment he got back to Baker Street that afternoon, he had shrugged off his coat, threw on his dressing gown and settled himself onto the sofa (well, he had more thrown himself and accompanied the gesture with a dramatic sigh) before he tucked his fingers under his chin and stared up at the ceiling.

That position was the one he remained in until he heard the familiar knock of the door that came with John Watson's entrance to 221b Baker Street. On hearing it, he opened one eye and raised an eyebrow.

"You're putting on weight again."

"Blame Mary's cooking," John retorted. "You texted me about a case?"

"Solved it," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Uncle did it, buried brother in backyard to avoid suspicion. Shallow grave, didn't count on heavy rainfall."

Opening both eyes, his gaze flicked back to the ceiling. He didn't need to look to know that John had pulled one of his (by now trademark) ' _I don't know why I bother_ ' faces before he'd settled down into his chair, just in time for Mrs Hudson to advance up the steps with a tray of tea in her hands.

Sure enough, the door swung open and Mrs Hudson's voice trilled a bright greeting.

"Hello John! Didn't know you'd be coming round. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson, thank you."

"Biscuit?"

"He only eats Mary's now Mrs Hudson," Sherlock drawled, smirking slightly as John again protested that it wasn't his fault that his wife cooked so well.

"I know dear," Mrs Hudson said as she continued to chatter. "Men are all the same. Always say they don't want something to eat, but then they are, chomping away as soon as your back's turned! How's Mary by the way? Doing well?"

"Yeah, yeah, she's doing great. She's enjoying being pregnant."

"Oh, that's nice. So lovely to be having a child, don't you think? Actually, talking of children – did you hear about Molly?"

At this, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and his gaze moved slowly over to John. He watched his friend's face change as Mrs Hudson relayed the news to him; when she was finished however, he did not display the same reaction as Sherlock had done, but instead a sort of faint amusement.

"Wow," he said after a moment. "That's – interesting. Good luck to her I guess."

Sherlock huffed and threw himself back on the sofa. Annoyingly, John was right: it _was_ an interesting decision. More than that, it was puzzling. Why now? She had never mentioned a desire for children before—or had it just not come up in their conversations before? She wasn't old either; her 'time' wasn't running out. Simple biological knowledge could tell him that.

So why on Earth was she making this leap?

He bolted up. _Tom._ She'd mentioned him. Clearly their parting had been much more antagonistic than she had ever made out, if she was willing to give birth to an actual living and breathing child to try and get over the man. (Though that would mean she would've had to have had some actual feelings for the man. Damn it.)

Sherlock was up and out of the door before John and Mrs Hudson were even allowed to notice that he had gone.

* * *

 

If he were in any other situation, he would have knocked. In this situation however, knocking was an unnecessary evil and quite fortunately, her door was unlocked anyway. (He made a mental note to warn her in the near future about the need for security.) He stepped through.

On a good day, Molly's flat often looked akin to a bomb site. Papers were strewn over tables, cups seemed to collect themselves on coffee and side tables, books were stacked precariously in corners and on shelves and clothes seemed to belong more on the floor than in a laundry basket. Sherlock however, had long ago decided he preferred it that way. She may have been untidy, but she was not slovenly. The disorganisation of her home was less of a consequence of laziness and more a reflection on her busy lifestyle.

When he walked in on that night though, everything was tidy. Toby, her exasperating hairball excuse for a cat, was curled up on the only armchair in the room. Any papers were neatly filed away on the coffee table; any books were carefully arranged in the bookshelf; her clothes too, were gone, presumably stuffed inside some laundry basket he was yet to see or find.

He felt uncharacteristically stupid as he gingerly stepped forward.

"Molly?"

Her voice, light and happy, floated from the kitchen. "I'll be out in a minute! Make yourself comfortable!"

Decidedly the opposite of comfortable, Sherlock perched on the edge of the sofa. Molly, much to his surprise, continued to speak. Either she had forgotten the abrupt manner in which he'd departed their earlier conversation, or she thought he was someone else. He decided to hope for the former.

"I'm just making up some tea – its decaf, if you're okay with that. I mean, of course it's decaf; I've got nine months of the stuff to look forward to so I might as well get used to – Sherlock!"

She stopped in her tracks as she entered into the living room. She had changed from her earlier clothing into a decidedly neater ensemble; instead of the customary colourful, inevitably fruit-based cardigan and dull dark trousers she wore in the morgue, she now wore a blouse with a neat bow and jeans. Her feet were bare. Relaxed, but smart.

"You're meeting someone," he said, almost dumbly. She gave a small nod.

"I am. It's—" She never got to tell him; a ringing of her doorbell was what stopped her.

Instantly, she began to move. Raking her fingers through her hair, she shooed Toby from his place on the armchair (earning a protesting hiss from the creature for her efforts) and practically sprinted towards the door to pull it open, a wide grin on her face. A man—dark haired, bearded, tall—stepped through.

"Hi," he said smoothly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Irish. Of course he'd be Irish. With a huff, he rose to his feet. The arrival came to a halt on seeing him and blinked, looking to Molly.

"Um – is this your boyfriend then?"

Molly spluttered a giggle and flushed red, vigorously shaking her head.

"No! No, no. This is Sherlock Holmes; he's just my friend."

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly. He stepped forward and held out his hand. "Just a friend."

The man gave a sigh of relief and shook Sherlock's outstretched hand. "Oh, thank God. That would've been awkward, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't think I do."

The man's smile slipped into a nervous frown. "Uh… well, you know. I'm… _the donor._ It just feels a bit weird, talking about… the thing in front of another guy."

To say that the silence that fell over the three was awkward would to be a great underestimation.

"Donald," Molly said brightly. "Do you want something to drink? I was just – making some coffee."

 _Donald_ gave a relieved sigh and nodded. "Cuppa would be lovely, actually. Milk, one sugar, if you please."

Molly grinned and clapped her hands together before she spun around and headed towards the kitchen. Sherlock smiled falsely at _Donald._

"I suppose then that your sperm count is high?"

It was as if he had released a fox into a chicken coop. Molly actually yelped as she spun around, whilst Donald blushed beetroot red.

"Uh – uh…"

"Sherlock – could I speak to you for a second?" Molly's voice was tight. "In the kitchen."

Although she had asked him, Sherlock got the strangest inkling that he had no choice in the matter; that inkling was confirmed when she captured his arm in an iron-like grip and steered him towards the kitchen, pushing him inside and slamming the door behind them. Letting out a breath, she whirled on him, eyes blazing.

"What the _hell_ do you think you are doing?!"

"Helping you choose a donor. That one isn't a good choice by the way; he's married, for a start."

"I know!" Molly cried, exasperated. Sherlock blinked.

"You know."

"Of course I do! I didn't just meet him on the street and ask him to give me a baby! He's signed up with The London Sperm Bank."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "That actually exists?"

Molly sighed heavily, scowling as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Why are you so against this?"

Sherlock laughed. "I am not against this, Molly. I'm helping you to be careful, that's all."

"No, you're really not. You're acting like a spoiled brat."

Sherlock huffed. "Look, I just don't see why you feel the need to have a baby just to get over _Tom._ It is, to be honest, the act of a desperate woman."

Going by the way in which Molly's expression darkened and she stepped towards with an arched eyebrow, he quickly guessed that he had said exactly the wrong thing. Molly brushed her hair from her eyes, her glare still fixed straight on him.

"Tom? You think I'm doing this because of Tom?"

"In my defence, you _did_ mention him—"

" _As an example!_ I'm getting old, Sherlock. I want a kid. Sure, this isn't entirely how I envisioned having one, but at least I'm getting what I want and at least I get to choose whose sperm I use. And Sherlock, you're ruining it for me. You're not being supportive, and you're certainly not helping."

"Oh, well, I apologise for trying to help you see that this isn't exactly the healthiest way of coping with a breakup!"

" _This isn't about Tom!_ " Molly yelled, before she took a steadying breath, touching briefly at her temple. "I want and I am having a child. If you have a problem with that, then you can feel entirely free to leave."

Although he did have plenty of problems with the situation at hand, he made no attempt to leave. Instead, he remained fixed to where he stood, blinking slightly in surprise at Molly's suddenly forthright nature. She was never usually this stubborn or this angry—unless of course, he had done something wrong. Therefore, logic dictated he had indeed done something wrong. Shifting his weight from head to foot, he tilted his head at her.

"Why didn't you ask me?"

Molly stumbled back at the bluntness of his question, and a blush grew over her cheeks. Somehow, she was more embarrassed by this question asked in the intimacy of her kitchen rather than any other question he had asked thus far.

"I'm sorry?"

"Why didn't you ask me?" Sherlock repeated his tone matter-of-fact. "Isn't my sperm good enough?"

Molly let out a squeak of surprise—or perhaps something else, it was difficult to tell—and her blush deepened.

"No!" she whispered. "No and no! I can't, and you know I can't."

"Why not? I am after all, a friend, and we know each other. Surely it's better to use a friend's offering rather than a—"

Molly held up her hands, causing Sherlock's train of thought to stutter to a halt. When he raised an eyebrow in a silent question, she slowly shook her head. Her expression, he now noticed, did not carry the same amount of rage that it had done only moments before. It was softer, sadder; unreadable too.

"Sherlock, please, stop." Her voice was gentle. "You know why I can't ask you. You _know._ "

He swallowed a little. He did know, but at the same time, he didn't know. As such, he chose not to reply to her observation. To reply was to delve into a whole world of complications.

Only a brief moment of silence went by before he finally made to move. Head bowed a little, he swept past Molly and out of the kitchen. He heard Donald throw a cheerful, if awkward, goodbye at him as he departed from the flat. Again, he did not reply.

* * *

It was a week later, not a day after he had been taken into the employ of Lady Smallwood, that Sherlock woke to find among his post a bright pink envelope, the familiar, feminine and looped writing of Molly Hooper written across it, spelling out his name and address. Inside said envelope, he found an equally bright, luridly cheerful invitation.

"Insemination party?" he mumbled under his breath and he rubbed at his tired eyes. Perhaps he had read it wrong. When he checked again however, the words were still there in large, invasive lettering: _I'm Getting Pregnant!_

With a sigh, Sherlock flipped the card over and dropped it onto the kitchen table with the intent of forgetting all about. A flash of smaller, but still equally familiar, writing caused him to pick it up again. A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth as he scanned the small note situated in the top corner of the invitation.

_I won't apologise for the invite, as I like pink and I_ _am_ _getting pregnant. It would be so great if I could see you here tonight. Molly xxx_

The three kisses did not go unnoticed.

* * *

 

When he arrived at the party, he found that the choice of music was distinctly 80s. That was the first bad thing about it. The second bad thing was that he found himself accosted by Meena. Molly's closest friend—aside from him of course—she was distinctly professional and almost tolerable when she was performing her duties at St. Bart's, but was alternative, bohemian and entirely intolerable when outside of the hospital. By the time he had stepped through the door of her home, it was all too clear that Meena had already ingested a fair amount of alcohol.

"Sherlock! Lovely to see you!" she said faux brightly as she shoved a glass of champagne into his hands. That was the only redeemable thing about Meena; on meeting him, she had immediately recognised him to be an obnoxious arsehole, and had made no bones about duly treating him as such.

"Lovely to see you too Meena," Sherlock said drily as he scanned the crowds.

"If you're looking for Molly, she's in my bedroom. Bit overwhelmed I think."

"I'd think so. I presume this whole scheme was your idea?"

Meena gave a proud nod. "Mm-hm. It's a big thing you know – having a kid! I wasn't going to let Molly celebrate it all by herself now was I?"

"Hm," Sherlock said shortly, and after making the decision that it was beneficial for both him and Meena to part her company as quickly as possible, he stepped away. Behind him, Meena gave another joyful cry as another guest stepped through the door. Sherlock took a larger gulp of champagne than was necessary and weaved through the crowds towards the living room, where he found John and Mary sat on the sofa, easily fitting into the whole tone and atmosphere of the party, social chameleons that they were.

On seeing his best friend, John cracked into laughter.

"Sherlock, you could at least _look_ like you're having fun."

"Why? I've never been a fan of loud, obnoxious occasions before now – why should I start pretending now?"

"Because it's for Molly," Mary said quickly, grinning up at him. "And as her friend, you're supposed to be happy for her!"

"Yes. As her friend," Sherlock echoed and he took another gulp of his champagne, squinting as the alcohol took its effect. Briefly, the room swirled. He blinked. Surely he could hold his intake better than this? He managed to focus his stare on John, who frowned.

"Sherlock?"

"Fine – I'm fine," Sherlock said and he blinked again. Why couldn't he just _focus?_ "Molly – no, wait – bathroom. Bath. Room."

He turned on his heel and headed out of the living room, leaving a perplexed John and a slowly realising Mary behind him.

"I know he's terrible with alcohol, but he can't be _that_ bad."

"No-one's that bad," Mary said, as she took the last gulp of her water and stood up to head out of the living room, calling out just one name as she went. "Meena!"

* * *

Mary had met Meena a few times, over lunches and during various girls' days out with Molly, and so she knew of Meena's penchant for 'alternative remedies'. It wasn't to say she judged Meena for it, but she did judge people who spiked other people's drinks; especially if those other people were her friends.

She found her outside, a particularly pungent cigarette hanging from her lips as she adjusted the paper lanterns that decoratively dotted the path up to her house.

"Meena," Mary said, grabbing at her elbow and turning her around. "What the hell did you give Sherlock?"

For the briefest of moments, Meena appeared to think playing innocent was the way to navigate this particular conversation, but after she took a puff of the joint between her lips, she thought better of it and instead gave a shrug.

"Look, when he came through that door, he looked like he was attending a funeral, not a party. I thought it was best to – you know – loosen him up a bit. Stop him being such an arsehole, y'know?"

"That doesn't mean you spike his drink," Mary hissed.

"C'mon! I put, like, half a pill in there. It'll barely affect him."

"Sherlock can't cope even with normal alcohol, let alone drugged alcohol!"

This seemed to get through to Meena, whose features paled. She inhaled another dose of her joint, but that didn't serve to calm her.

"It'll be fine," she said, her false grin giving just how not fine it would be. "As long as he stays away from the guacamole, he'll be fine."

"What, is the guacamole drugged too?"

"No. It's just really good guacamole."

* * *

Sherlock had never really indulged in party food before; as he barely ate in his day to day life anyway, he'd never seen the need. On the other hand, he'd never encountered such stupendous guacamole before. Taking up another tortilla chip, he dunked it into the bowl and shoved it into his mouth. His chewing was no doubt an obnoxious sight, but who was he to deny himself the glories of guacamole? He took another portion and again, shoved it into his mouth.

"Enjoying the party?"

He did not hide the groan that came with his hearing of _Donald's_ smooth Irish accent, but if that had offended Donald, it didn't matter. Donald—Donald the donor—still parked himself in the kitchen chair opposite. He gave a heavy sigh, soon followed by a nervous grin.

"Wow. This is all a – a bit intense, isn't it?"

Sherlock shrugged petulantly and snapped off a corner of his tortilla chip. "I wouldn't know. I'm not the prize hog."

"Hm. I honestly didn't think there would be this much of a fuss about it all."

"If you wish to put blame on anyone, put the blame on Meena," Sherlock said his bitter tone loud and clear. "She set up the whole scheme."

Donald nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah, uh – yeah. I met her. She's – she's a feisty one."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he carefully pushed the guacamole to one side, his eyes never once leaving _Donald._ He leaned forward, again taking a bite of his tortilla chip. He slowly chewed it, almost pondering.

"Why did you do it?"

"What – sign up?"

"With the London Sperm – _thing._ Why?"

"Oh," Donald gave a nervous laugh and his gaze flitted towards the door. "Well, uh, my wife and I… we've already got two kids – thought it was selfish to uh – well. Call it an act of charity, I guess."

"Your _wife,_ " Sherlock repeated, the words elongated and slurred. Slurred? Odd. "Are you having troubles with your – wife?"

"No, none at all. No, she's… she's beautiful. We married three years ago. Love at first sight. The kids followed straight after. Yeah, uh… we're in love. Still going strong, knock on wood!" Donald gave a quick tap at the kitchen table with his knuckles to prove his point.

"Humph." Sherlock leaned back in his chair and took up another portion of guacamole and made to bite into it. Unfortunately for his—already rather reduced—dignity, his mouth missed the portion entirely and the tortilla chip promptly snapped into two, leaving him with a rather large guacamole stain on his previously pristine shirt. Using this as his chance to leave, Donald nodded at him once and quickly departed. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock stood and stumbled his way past the kitchen table and towards the sink.

"Sherlock, are you – damn." Behind him, Mary gave a sigh. "You found the guacamole."

"It's very good," Sherlock mumbled, turning around and leaning against the sink. Mary raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock lowered his gaze. Seeing the guacamole, he sloppily reached up and grabbed the excess from his shirt, dropping it into the sink. Mary rolled her eyes.

"Stand still," she ordered and she moved towards him, grabbing at a wodge of kitchen roll. Without a word, she cleaned him up and brushed him down, eyeing him.

"Molly's still hiding. Go and see her."

"Don't want to," he mumbled, his tone not too dissimilar to that of a petulant toddler.

" _Go._ "

He went.

* * *

His knock against the bedroom door was tentative. The following call of "who is it?" was soft. If he weren't paying full attention, it might have become lost against the pounding 80's music. Fortunately, he heard her voice loud and clear. Instead of answering her however, he took her question as a sign that he was allowed inside, and as such, he pushed open the door and entered. On seeing him come in, Molly—at that point sat cross-legged at the head of the bed, surrounded by pillows and various trinkets of a bohemian nature—smiled.

"Hello. Shut the door, won't you?"

He obediently did so, and he again obeyed her when she gently patted the space on the bed in front of her, mirroring her crossed legs and her slumped posture as he sat. Molly watched him.

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

Shrugging, he rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Yep." He narrowed his eyes at her and raised a finger towards her eye line. "And _you_ are hiding."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Is it that obvious?"

"Mm-hm."

"Thought so. I don't know, I guess – I guess I thought it would be easy – it's always seemed so easy on paper. But now – everything's just become so – _big._ "

Sherlock made a face. "You didn't have to have the party."

Having grown used to his blunt and overly honest ways (ways that were seemingly exacerbated by his intake of alcohol) Molly just gave a breath of a laugh and reached forward, touching her fingers against his open palm.

"Meena's into palm reading – just as a hobby though," she added on seeing him wrinkle his nose in disbelief. Her dimples deepened as she smiled and his eyes slowly dropped towards his hand, listening as she traced the pad of her fingers against the lines of his skin. "This is your heart line. This is your head line; and this is your life line. Yours are all pretty long to be honest."

"Does that mean anything?" He tried not to sound mocking, but sound mocking he did. He felt Molly's eyes flick up to settle on him.

"I have no idea." A giggle burst from her and she let his hand drop back into his lap. Her giggles faded away as he lifted his gaze towards her, and the same look of quiet terror overcame her features. She worried at her bottom lip.

"What if I fail, Sherlock? What if I'm not a good mum? What if – what if my child gets taken into – I don't know – social services or something, because I don't measure up? I don't want my child to be a statistic."

Sherlock felt himself smile. If sober, he would not have known quite what to say when confronted with this heartfelt confession of emotion; but on seeing his friend, his Molly, upset and scared and nervous when she should've been happy and at peace, he knew he needed to provide her with at least a crumb of comfort. Gently, he reached forward and cupped her cheeks with both his hands. Her brown eyes lightened with warmth.

"Any child of yours, Molly Hooper, will be a wonder to behold."

At this, her smile grew and he felt her squeeze at his arm as he leaned forward and kissed her forehead before he drew his hands away from her face.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Her smile widened as she patted at his knee. "When you're not being a complete arse, you're quite sweet."

"Because I'm highly unlikely to remember any of this tomorrow, I'll accept that back-handed compliment."

Molly laughed and briefly rolled her eyes. "Glad to hear it."

Unfurling her legs from underneath her, she slid off the bed and stood, only pausing to fix an elaborate flower crown to the top of her head. She met Sherlock's raised eyebrow with a scrunch of her nose.

"Don't laugh – I personally think I look quite cute."

"Only you would think a flower crown looks 'cute', Molly."

Her only response to that was to swiftly stick out her tongue before she headed out of the door.

* * *

It was a little while later that Sherlock found himself stood, swaying gently, in a corner of Meena's living room, with the rest of the guests—and _Donald_ —all squashed in there with him. By the fireplace stood Meena, with a severely embarrassed Molly situated beside her. Meena, having partaken in an increasingly large amount of alcohol, had a bright and happy tone to her voice.

"Okay! So, as Donald has kindly now provided his offering,"—at this, there was a tittering of giggles from some of the guests whereas Donald awkwardly cleared his throat and tried not to look anyone in the eye—"we are all supposed to leave. However, before any sort of… _transaction_ is made here tonight, I have to say a few words. I have to say a few words to Molly. Molly, you are the reason we are all here tonight, and honestly – I couldn't be prouder of you. You're taking control of your life, and you are such an inspiration honey – _such_ an inspiration – to _all_ of us!"

Meena raised her champagne glass high. "A toast! To Molly!"

The guests replied in kind, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he saw Molly, as the pounding music resumed, briefly close her eyes, steeling herself for the congratulations that were now coming her way.

He did not however, stay for the dancing; mostly for the reason that he had come to the realisation that he needed to pee. Half-stumbling, half-walking out of the living room, he made his way down the corridor and towards the bathroom door. When he tried it, it was locked. He knocked what he believed to be a light, polite knock but somehow managed to come out as an impatient pounding.

"Bugger off!" John's voice came floating through the door, and Sherlock could've sworn to have briefly heard a distinctly familiar female giggle. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Mary wouldn't be pregnant if they weren't at these levels of amorous. Although the irony of the situation did cause him to chuckle.

"You're a dog, John Watson!" he called through the door and he took another gulp of his drink.

"Look, just piss off!" Frustration edged at John's voice. Mary's giggling grew louder. "Use the bathroom upstairs, Sherlock!"

"Will do, will do! Enjoy your—" The end of his sentence was cut off by a large, unexpected burp. A trail of a laugh escaped him and Sherlock pulled himself away from the door and turned towards the spiral set of stairs that led up to the first floor. With a firm grip on the rail, he just about managed to reach the top without falling over.

The bathroom, he managed to figure out through his blurred vision, was signified by a cartoon of a toilet holding a toilet brush with the supposedly funny, definitely vulgar comment of "Number twos only". The exclamation mark after it was particularly blatant. Sherlock therefore blinked when he stepped inside and switched on the light. It was a lot more… organised than he expected it. Cleaner. More neutral. Clinical. Yes, clinical. Posters and papers were stuck to the door; although his vision wasn't at its sharpest, but he still managed to pick out certain words. _Ovarian pain._ _Cycle day._ Pink dots with numbers.

"Molly," he muttered, shaking his head. "Molly, Molly, Molly…"

Giving a sigh, he turned around and moved over to the toilet, unzipping his trousers. He pressed his hand against the wall for stability as he peed, and duly washed his hands afterwards, pressing his cool, damp hands against his warmed face. Why did people get so warm when they were drunk? He needed to look into that. Perhaps through research or an experiment; he'd look into that later. Drawing himself away from the sink, he reached for a hand towel from the upper shelf.

His gaze semi-focused on a bottle, white with a blue screw-on cap. It was surrounded by weirdly-scented candles (vanilla? Sick? Hard to tell) and a bunch of bright yellow, fake flowers. Dropping the hand towel to the floor, he made a reach for it.

Leaning against the sink, Sherlock slowly unscrewed the lid. He frowned as he briefly looked at the white, gloopy liquid swirling inside. His frown deepened as he tilted the bottle slightly. A name, hastily scribbled onto the label, screamed out at him.

_Donald._

"Donald," Sherlock muttered. "Twat."

* * *

The tap ran with cold water, forming a pool against the base of the sink. Knelt over it was Sherlock, still with the bottle in hand. Gently, with a soft laugh escaping him, he waved the bottle backwards and forwards over the small pool of water with a childish fascination as the thick liquid inside the bottle almost reached the tip of the bottle before he immediately drew it back.

A pounding came at the door. "Hey! Anyone in here?"

" _I'm_ in here!" Sherlock blurted out, indignant at being interrupted.

That same indignant attitude soon evaporated when he looked back at the sink to find that he had let the bottle drop from his fingers, and Donald the donor's sperm was now merrily making its way down the plughole.

Sat on the bathroom floor, Sherlock gazed at the now empty sperm bottle and wondered what in hell he was supposed to do now. First, he remained still. Second, he panicked; small whines and tugs through his curls were the only indicator of the internal screaming that now took place. What could he do? Donald the donor was, well, now no longer a donor. The sperm that was going to be was now the sperm that would never be.

"Stupid…" he muttered under his breath, "stupid – _stupid!_ "

Hated, reviled; that was what he would be. Most of all, most importantly of all, he had deprived Molly Hooper, sweet and kind and dependable Molly Hooper, of a child. A child who would've been loved and cherished and looked after and would've been made content, whatever it took. He taken that away, and all because he'd managed, in a fit of drunken jealousy, to flush away Donald's act of charity.

Sherlock's head snapped up.

Act of charity.

What if—well, no-one else was here. No-one else but him knew what had happened. Couldn't he just… perform his own—'act of charity'?

Positioning himself on the toilet seat, Sherlock grabbed at the usual stack of bathroom magazines. Quickly, he flicked through them.

IKEA catalogue? No.

Good Housekeeping? Definitely not.

Knitting patterns? Why did Meena have knitting patterns? Who had knitting patterns in a bathroom?

Woman & Home? No— _wait._ He squinted. Blonde hair, white teeth. Big smile. He knew that woman. John had mentioned her. And her distinctive voice.

Ma – Mariella. Frostrup! Yes, that was it. Mariella Frostrup.

Sherlock leaned back against the toilet. Well, she was pretty enough, it had to be said. Infinitely better than knitting patterns, that was for absolutely sure.

Slowly, he reached forward, locked the door and reached to unzip his trousers.

No-one would know.

Absolutely no-one.

* * *

The next morning, Sherlock awoke with a headache of such magnitude that he decided it would have been much more tolerable to listen to Mycroft than to have a whole marching band play incessantly in his head. Even blinking hurt.

So how he made it to John's house without throwing up and only a slight, irregular bout of heavy groaning, he did not know. He decided to count it as a miracle. Yet when he knocked on the door—an action which only seemed to increase the speed of his internal marching band—he did not receive the warm and welcoming pity party he had been hoping for. Instead, John glared at him briefly before he slammed the door closed.

"John!" Sherlock called, knocking at the door again. " _John!_ "

"I'm only opening this door if you're sober."

"I am! Highly hungover, but sober!"

"Promise?"

"Open this bloody door!"

"You're sober."

The door opened soon after, and John's glare was still there. He pulled his dressing gown tighter around himself and rubbed at his eyes before he focused on Sherlock again. "Just so you know, we are no longer friends."

"What?" Sherlock asked, following on as John began to make his way down the hallway and into his living room. "Did I do something wrong?"

John gave a short laugh. " _Something_ wrong? I could make a list, Sherlock! You showed up here at 3 in the bloody morning, you—"

"I was here? Last night?"

"Yeah – and you would _not_ shut up." John gave a sigh and settled into his armchair, sipping at a large mug of tea. "Seriously. Forty five minutes of you mumbling about acts of charity and – flower crowns and offerings and Mariella Frostrup – how do you even _know_ of Mariella Frostrup? For God's sake, Sherlock. You need help."

Slowly, with an increasingly puzzled frown, Sherlock settled against the sofa. He drew his hands over his face.

"John, I don't remember any of that."

"What, did you tune yourself out or something? Because honestly, I would not be surprised."

"Nope; I genuinely do not remember any of that. I remember – I remember arriving at the party and—"

John raised an eyebrow. " _And?_ "

Sherlock shrugged in an admittance of defeat. "And nothing."

"Hm. Well, Sherlock, just don't do anything else stupid, okay? Because seriously – last night, you were weird."

"John, I'm always 'weird'."

"Exactly. So the fact that I'm calling last night 'weird' should tell you something."

* * *

Unfortunately for Sherlock, it all seemed to head downhill from there. His employment under Lady Smallwood, in order to investigate Charles Augustus Magnussen and retrieve a set of explicit letters, soon took up all his time, and in his determination, he found himself heading down some particularly taboo paths. It was soon after he had gone down the most taboo of paths in order to catch Magnussen's attention that John and Mary had discovered him. It was only half an hour after their discovery of his activities that Molly discovered them as well. Unlike John's choice to verbally rage at him however, Molly had taken a much more physical approach. The slaps to his face stung and her anger, her hurt and her disappointment was an image Sherlock was unlikely to forget.

The image and her actions stayed with him until the day she visited him in hospital. Aside from Mycroft—who had only come in and dumped a bag of grapes on his lap, told him to be more careful in future and departed as quickly as he had left—Molly was his first official visitor.

At first, he did not notice her as a result of his being asleep, but his eyes soon fluttered open when he heard the soft tap of her knuckles on the hospital room door and the even softer call of "hello" that came with it. A smile grew against his mouth and he tilted his head against the pillow, looking at her.

"Morphine's allowed, I take it."

Picking at her thumbnails, she bit back a laugh. "When it's saving your life, yes."

"Glad to hear it."

Her gaze flicked towards the grapes on the hospital trolley.

"Mycroft," he said by way of explanation. "He's a rubbish big brother."

"Clearly." She settled herself into the chair beside his bed and leaned forward, her elbows tucked against her knees. "Sherlock, I just wanted to—"

"I know."

She blinked. "You know?"

His gaze flicked down to her abdomen. Her baggy clothing hid the bump well. Really, one could only notice it if they were intent on looking for it.

"How far along are you?"

"Oh, um – little under two months. Everything went well."

"So Donald the donor performed his duty," Sherlock said softly, to which Molly smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"And uh, Sherlock… I wanted to say sorry. For the – slaps. You needed them, but still."

"You want to apologise. Clear the air."

Sherlock tried for another smile, but this one was less genuine. After all, he had a feeling he knew exactly what she was really here for. Part of him hoped this was one of the rare occasions that his instinct was wrong.

"Basically. And you've probably worked this out already, but – well, I've been thinking." She picked at her thumbnail again, and her gaze fell to the floor as she spoke. "London is – it's so expensive these days. I can't raise a kid here. And I want to do this right."

She let out a breath, steeling herself as she looked back to him. He made no attempt to look away from her.

"I'm moving. I've found this place in Suffolk – it's cheap, and it's in a good area. It'll be a great place to raise the baby."

"Suffolk." Sherlock swallowed slightly. "Right. That's – good."

He felt her warm fingers wrap around his and he watched her as she stood and moved closer towards his side.

"Sherlock, I know you don't remember saying this, as you were incredibly drunk at the time and I know you tune almost everything out, but you – you told me that any child of mine would be a wonder." She chewed a little at her bottom lip. Nervous habit. "Do you still believe that?"

Sherlock's grip around her fingers tightened.

"I wouldn't have said it if I didn't."

"Even drunk?"

He chuckled and gave a slow nod. "Even drunk."

She let out a breath of relief. A hurt he didn't want to recognise pricked at him when her eyes becoming damp with tears. Quickly, she ducked her head, pressing her lips to his cheek. Neither of them failed to notice the way in which she lingered briefly against his skin.

She straightened up, and Sherlock's grip around her hand loosened.

"Thanks for everything, Sherlock. Be nice to the other pathologists, won't you?"

"You always had too much faith in me, Molly Hooper."

"I have to, don't I?" She kissed him again, this time a brief, non-intimate press of her lips to the top of his curls. After that, it was with one more warm smile over her shoulder that Molly Hooper walked out of Sherlock Holmes' life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, this fic is growing so big, I decided to bite the bullet and make this a three-parter. Secondly, I apologise for the lack of updates. When I first posted this, I thought the update would come along soon enough, but then a number of huge events in my personal life happened and this WIP had to take a backseat for a while. I can't promise anything about when the next update will be, but I will try to get it up on the internet as soon as it's possible for me to do so.
> 
> Also, gratuitous Hobbit reference is gratuitous. Don't judge me.

**Seven Years Later**

It took 84 months, 364 weeks and 2,555 days, one brief return of an archenemy, countless e-mails, regular Christmas cards and endless unfulfilled promises to see one another soon for Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper to reunite.

It wasn’t that the seven years apart crawled by, for either of them. She had her job and her child, he had the focus of London’s criminal underworld and after the first four years or so, Sherlock deemed himself content with his life. True, he could never quite forget—nor forgive himself for—the fact that his last goodbye to Molly had been from a hospital bed; nor could he go into St. Bart’s without feeling just a little hollow at the fact that he was no longer greeted with a smile but instead challenges from staff and demands for reasons as to why he needed access.

As such, it was a rather heady sense of relief that swept through him when he, in the middle of examining a not particularly puzzling crime scene, just so happened to hear Lestrade and John’s conversation. They exchanged the usual small talk, with John briefly discussing Ruby’s progress and Lestrade, as an older and wiser father, giving what he deemed to be good advice.

“Oh, yeah – has Molly talked to you yet?”

Sherlock gave the briefest of pauses, listening harder.

“No,” John replied, his tone one of surprise. “Though she might’ve talked to Mary. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong – just that she’s moving back to London.”

Sherlock shot to his feet, promptly hitting his head on a rather low section of ceiling. Lestrade frowned at him, amusement in his eyes as he watched Sherlock desperately try not to appear too eager as he rubbed at his now sore head.

“Molly?” he asked. “She’s moving back?”

“Yeah. Blimey, didn’t you know? She told me she’d left you a message.”

Sherlock scoffed as he drew his phone from his coat. “Left me a message? I check my phone all the time – I would _know_ if she’d left me a – oh.”

Lestrade smirked triumphantly as Sherlock turned away and pressed the phone to his ear to hear the warm voice of Molly Hooper.

“Oh, hi – Sherlock, it’s Molly. You’ll never guess! Well, you probably will guess, but – anyway. I’m rambling, sorry. Blame the excitement. But yes – I wanted you to be the first to know – we are moving back to London! I’ve got this really wonderful job offer, and I found this really, really lovely school for Felix – but yeah. Moving back to London! Call me, okay?”

Quietly, Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear.

“Well?” Lestrade asked from behind him. “Did she?”

Sherlock whipped around, pointing to the body.

“Specks of dry plaster on the dead man’s back, dirt underneath the fingernails – most likely skin – all signs of a struggle. Blunt force trauma to the head, most likely with a heavy object, presumably either stolen from the scene or stashed away – I’m sure you’ll find it somewhere near here – the footprints leading down the stairs indicate someone of a heavy build – who do we know of a heavy build related to the victim? His brother. Take the brother in for questioning and get back to me when he confesses. Afternoon!”

With that, he pushed past an astounded Lestrade and John, heading down the staircase. Lestrade blinked slowly.

“Honestly, I’ll never understand how he does that.”

* * *

Molly never realised just how much stuff she owned. Her cottage down in Suffolk had been small and compact, and yet she’d still managed to accumulate enough furniture, trinkets, toys and other such items to accommodate a sort of large flat in London.

“Molly!” Meena’s voice floated down the hallway of the flat. “Where do you want this box again?”

“What does it say on the box?”

“Uh… ‘Felix’s Stuff’.”

“Right – put it in the living room, in here – he’ll want to sort it all out.” Molly continued to unpack the box in front of her. Meena entered soon after, splotches of red on her cheeks. She set down the box with a thud and a heavy sigh, to which Molly just had to giggle. Meena’s choice of retort was a slight sticking out of her tongue.

“Shut up. The bohemian lifestyle doesn’t call for cardio.” She made to open up the box, only stopping when Molly quickly reached forward to smack lightly at her wrist. Meena gave a small pout but Molly, having experienced the same pout many a time from her seven year old son, remained deftly unaffected by the gesture and just went back to unpacking. She heard Meena give out another sigh, though this one was of sympathy, and not one designed to simply garner attention.

“Jesus, Molls. How much stuff _do_ you have?”

Molly gave a shrug. “I honestly thought it was less.”

Any reply Meena might have made was cut off by a violent, shrill ringing. Meena clamped her hands against her ears.

“What the hell is _that?_ ”

“My ringtone,” Molly explained as she stood and climbed and waded through the numerous stacks of boxes towards the sofa, where her mobile laid, its screen lit up insistently. “Felix was fed up of me never answering, so he made it as loud as possible – hello?”

“Molly.” If it wasn’t such a happiness for her to hear Sherlock say her name for the first time in seven years, Molly might have noticed how nervous he sounded. Fortunately, she failed to notice his immediate tone of voice, and instead gave a soft laugh, briefly touching her palm against her forehead.

“Sherlock! So you got my message?”

On hearing Molly say his name, Meena rolled her eyes and promptly disappeared, heading down the staircase. Watching her leave, Molly slowly shook her head.

“Mm – I received it while inspecting a crime scene.”

“Oh.” Molly tightly curled her legs under herself, hugging at her waist. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“No. It was barely a 5 anyway. Easily solvable. No doubt Lestrade will text me soon saying the brother has confessed.”

So he was still a consulting detective. That was—good. Yeah. She felt her smile grow. Definitely good. “I’m glad you called. Where are you? You’re not still at the crime scene are you?”

“No, I’m at Baker Street.”

“Oh, good – I know you hate being interrupted. By the way...” Tucking her phone under her chin, Molly began the climb back towards her vacated spot and she sat herself down. “I was hoping we could meet up, maybe some time this afternoon?”

There was a pause as Sherlock considered her offer.

“This afternoon?”

“Yeah – it would be tonight, but I’m super busy with unpacking – I was hoping we could meet at that coffee house, you know the one quite near you? Not Speedy’s, the other one.”

“Ah. Okay. That sounds – fine, actually. What time should I meet you?”

Molly sighed and pressed the phone closer to her ear. “Well, here’s the thing – I’m bringing Felix. I was hoping you’d like to meet him – plus, as I said, I’m super busy today, and can really only manage the afternoon—”

“That much was obvious. How does three o’clock sound?”

Molly gave a smile. “Three sounds great.”

* * *

He would have been lying through his teeth if he claimed not to have had the slightest sliver of panic run through him when he heard Molly’s voice again; and he’d still have been lying if that same sliver of panic had increased to almost a whole flood as he stepped through the door to the coffee house and found Molly sat at one of the tables. Seven years had changed her. Her posture, for example. She sat up a little straighter, and didn’t fidget. She wore a smile, one of contentment. Being a mother had changed her. It suited her.

Clearing his throat a little, he moved through and weaved around the various tables towards her. Seemingly lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice his presence until he pressed his palm gently against her shoulder. She turned her head and her eyes widened a little. Sherlock gave a small, amused chuckle and he let his hand fall away from her shoulder back down to his side.

“There’s no need to be _so_ surprised to see me Molly – I did say three o’clock.”

Relieved, she let out a breath, stood and he felt himself smile as she pulled him into a brief hug of hello, locking her arms around his neck and shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she drew away from him, her eyes following him as they settled into their seats. “I just didn’t think it would be so – _strange_ to see you.”

“Well, time flies when you’re having fun, I suppose. Where’s Felix? You said you were bringing him.”

“Yeah, he’s just gone to the loo. He’ll be back in a minute. I ordered your coffee by the way – still black, two sugars?” Sherlock gave a nod in answer and Molly took a brief sip of her coffee, eyeing him. “And Felix is just as nervous as you are, so you shouldn’t worry. The move to London’s been a big thing for him.”

“Nervous?” Sherlock asked innocently. “Who said I was nervous?”

“You used sarcasm as a form of greeting, Sherlock.”

“Ah – so I am indeed that transparent?”

“Yes, you are.” Flicking a grin at him, Molly glanced at her watch, her head turning towards the toilet door, just as it opened. Sherlock watched as a boy, of average height for his age, stepped out. So this was Felix. His hair was dark, and like many children of his age, it was a mass of curls. His eyes were the only feature about him that indicated his parentage. Warm, wide and a deep brown, they were almost a mirror image of his mother’s. On seeing Molly, he grinned widely and made to rush towards her, but juddered to a halt when his eyes fell on Sherlock. His features fell into a frown.

“It’s alright Felix,” Molly said with a laugh, looking to him and holding out a hand. “This is Sherlock Holmes; he’s a friend of mine.”

Felix gingerly made his way forward and took a tight hold of his mother’s hand. He tilted his head as he sat between them.

“ _You’re_ Sherlock Holmes? Mum said you’re a detective.”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock corrected as he took a gulp of his coffee. “Only one in the world.”

Felix continued to look at him. “So what do you _actually_ do?”

Sherlock had encountered many reactions from people at his declaration of career choice. He had been met with fascination, gratitude, contempt, laughter and many more besides that; but never had he been met with a reaction that was so distinctly impassive.

“Uh, well, I suppose—”

“Sherlock solves cases,” Molly said, directing a small smile at Sherlock before she looked back to Felix, whose eyes were still unnervingly fixed on Sherlock. “He catches bad guys – like Batman.”

“ _Batman?_ ” Sherlock mouthed as Felix tore his gaze away from him, considering his mother’s words. Molly flapped a dismissive hand, though pink coloured her cheeks and the tips of her ears as she nonchalantly nibbled on a piece of shortbread. Sherlock suppressed a smile.

“So you’re a superhero?” Felix asked as he looked back to Sherlock, to which he chuckled and took another gulp of coffee.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

It was meant to be a joke, but if the unchanged expression on Felix’s features was anything to go by, it had fallen rather flat very quickly.

“Okay,” Molly said brightly, and in a remarkably deft display of dealing with her son’s blunt curiosities, she reached into her handbag. “Felix, why don’t you run and get yourself a treat?”

Felix gave a nod and his fist clutched around the coins that Molly dropped into his palm before he jumped off the chair to run towards the counter, only pausing to kiss at his mother’s cheek and whisper something in her ear. She smiled and shook her head.

“No, you’re fine – go and get something to eat.” She turned towards Sherlock. “He likes you.”

“He doesn’t think my job exists.”

Molly’s dimples deepened as she gave a smile. “Trust me, he likes you. In fact, I was going to ask you a small favour – could you perhaps watch him? Just for a few hours – well, more of an afternoon – this weekend? I’ve got this meeting at his school on Saturday, and Meena’s off on some New Age retreat thing and I don’t want to bother John and Mary because they’ve got Ruby, and I can’t impose on them so quickly after moving back, so—”

“I’m your only option.”

“Basically.”

Sherlock eyed Felix carefully, who now stared, with intense concentration, at a row of muffins, counting carefully on his fingers. He brought his gaze back to Molly, and he gave a hesitant smile. He hadn’t had any truly intriguing cases come through of late; what could it hurt to take on a child for a few hours?

* * *

As it turned out, looking after a child—especially the child of a friend one hadn’t seen for seven years—was a much more difficult task than first imagined. First of all, there was the issue of what to actually _do_. He couldn’t take Felix onto a crime scene (Lestrade was a tolerant man, but Sherlock highly doubted he would extend his tolerance towards children running around crime scenes), and nor could he take him into the morgue, the lab or anywhere else that might have been of interest. In the end therefore, Sherlock did what any sensible man would do when looking after a child for an afternoon: he took Felix to the zoo.

The zoo itself was like many others, with alliterative signs and brightly coloured maps and a large range of animals to help wile away the time; and it was in a tense but ultimately companionable silence that Sherlock strolled through the many enclosures, with Felix beside him.

It was when they reached the lion enclosure that the silence between them was broken, and it was, quite surprisingly, broken by Felix, who gave a soft sigh as he leaned against the fence.

“I wish I had a dog.”

Seeing as the lions were currently all piled up and asleep and not in the least bit entertaining, Sherlock wasn’t too surprised at Felix’s attempt at conversation; even if the choice of subject was odd, to say the least.

“No you don’t,” he said. “They’re smelly, noisy and eventually get sent away, so any bond you might have built up is, in the end, quite irrelevant. To the dog at least.”

Felix looked up at him. “Did you have one?”

Sherlock gave a nod. “Named him Redbeard.”

“Like the pirate?”

Sherlock blinked and looked to Felix, eyes narrowed. Not even Mycroft had fully realised the reference until he’d one day gained enough technological know-how in order to Google it. A smile hinted at the edges of his mouth.

“Yes – like the pirate.”

Felix gave a short nod and Sherlock could’ve sworn to see him swallow a smile of his own as he went back to studying the sleeping lions.

“My birthday’s in a month. I’ll be seven.” When Sherlock didn’t give a reply, he felt Felix pull a little at his coat sleeve. Looking to him, he found that Felix now wore an indignant frown.

“What?”

“That was an invitation. I’m having a party – I want you to come.”

“Are you entirely sure that’s wise?”

Unfortunately, before Felix had the chance to either reflect on Sherlock’s question or give his answer, one of the lions flopped onto his back and opened his mouth, letting out a growl of a yawn. Where other children laughed or cried, Felix said nothing, but instead quickly dived behind Sherlock and clutched at the hem of his coat. Sherlock glanced down at him, a smile touching at the edge of his mouth.

“Are you scared of lions?”

“No.” Felix’s voice was small. “I just know that their roar can be heard from 8 kilometres away and they’ve got 30 teeth in their mouth, which they use to grab and kill their prey.”

Sherlock’s smile widened as he glanced back at the napping lions. “They also sleep for 20 hours a day – so I think we’re safe for the moment.”

* * *

It was after Felix’s encounter with the lions that he decided he needed a souvenir, and so Sherlock found himself being dragged towards a small gift shop, which was predictably brightly coloured and filled with overly expensive toys. Yet Felix wandered happily around the shop, picking and choosing at the items on display. On their entrance, the attendant at the checkout had smiled the same measured, polite smile always given by shop attendants when they were presented with small children.

“He looks just like you,” the attendant said, nodding towards Felix, and it took Sherlock a moment to register that the comment had been directed towards him.

“Well,” he said, scanning the attendant before he gave a false smile, “he isn’t my son.”

The measured smile of the attendant grew tight before he wisely dropped it and gave a shrug.

“He’s a little you anyway.”

The conversation was mercifully cut off by Felix running forward and dumping one medium-sized stuffed lion on the checkout counter.

“I thought you were scared of lions,” Sherlock noted, a tinge of amusement in his voice. Felix gave a heavy sigh.

“I never said I was scared of them; you just assumed.”

* * *

On the other side of town, Molly, with her bag filled with paperwork, raked her fingers through her hair and took what she hoped would be a calming sip from her tea as her eyes searched the street outside. She’d never thought she would be quite _this_ nervous. It was just tea. Everyone did tea. Of course, they often didn’t have a seven year break between the initial meeting and tea, and they also often didn’t have the connection she had to the man she was about to meet for said tea. Still, she reminded herself. It was just tea. That was all.

The faint ringing of the bell over the tea shop door gave her cause to look up. The smile she gave was, initially, more one of relief than of any particular greeting. Donald—now sans beard, she observed—made his way through the tables and with a wide smile, he briefly brushed his mouth against her cheek before he settled into the chair opposite.

“Hi – sorry for being late – traffic was a nightmare.”

Molly gave a smile. “It’s okay. You got here.”

“Yeah I did.”

She swallowed a little, tucking her hair behind her ear. How exactly did one start a conversation with their sperm donor? ‘ _Congratulations, your sperm gave me a bouncing baby boy’_? Informative, but perhaps not. ‘ _Donated any more sperm lately_ ’? No, definitely not.

“So – how have you been?”

That was good. That was… safe. Yet by the way that Donald lowered his head and cleared his throat and rubbed at the back of his head, it was clearly quite shaky ground indeed.

“Well, I, uh, got a divorce.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Does that explain the…?” She gestured at her chin in lieu of finishing her question. Donald gave a nod.

“The wife – more ex-wife now of course – always I insisted I looked better with a beard. But, uh, that’s irrelevant.” He gave a smile. “I was beyond happy to receive your call, by the way.”

“I’m glad – I mean, you’re not under any obligation whatsoever – I just thought, in case Felix ever wanted to get into contact with you, it would be good for you two to actually be in contact, rather than me just – handing him a number, down the line—” Molly breathed out a sigh. “Is this making any sense?”

Donald chuckled lightly. “No, it makes perfect sense. I already see my kids on a regular basis, so it would just be, well, great to see Felix too. And I did always occasionally think about, you know, how everything turned out, with you and him, so… yeah. Happy to receive your call.”

Molly’s smile widened and took a sip. This whole tea idea was turning out much better than previously thought.

* * *

With his stuffed lion gripped in one hand and a 99 ice cream in his other, Felix had a distinctly questioning look on his face as he watched Sherlock pay the ice cream vendor.

“So what _does_ a consulting detective do?”

“Your mum already told you that,” Sherlock said, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets, even though the heat had not abided and he practically feel the beads of sweat popping out against his forehead. Felix merrily walked along beside him, taking tentative, quick bites of his ice cream.

“Yeah, but she said you were like Batman. Batman has a costume.” Felix paused, his gaze flicking over Sherlock’s coat. “Is this coat your costume?”

Sherlock snorted. “No. And I hold no other markings of being a superhero, so you can forget that path of questioning.”

“I wasn’t questioning you,” Felix said, licking at his ice cream and squinting when the cool temperature invaded his mouth and shot straight towards his brain. “I was – asking a question.”

Sherlock made a low noise at the back of his throat. “You ask a fair few questions. Why do you want to know what a consulting detective does anyway?”

Contrary to what Sherlock had predicted, Felix did not provide some asinine retort or brush off the query with yet another question but rather, he gave a light sigh and an almost casual shrug.

“Mum said you defeated bad guys – I just wondered what – what _kind_ of bad guys.”

“Murderers, psychopaths, blackmailers, that sort of thing.”

“Oh. Did you defeat that Moriarty man?”

Sherlock paused. _Ah._ Felix watched him with narrowed eyes, nibbling thoughtfully at his ice cream once again.

“Mum told me he returned and you defeated him.”

“Yes. I, uh, did.”

Although Felix had been born for barely a few months by the time of Moriarty’s return, his existence—coupled with the undeniable connection Molly had to Sherlock’s cheat at death—still had Mycroft determined to hide Molly away in some safe house deep within the Peak District. Even if the Moriarty threat was a fake, every precaution had to be made. That was Mycroft’s reasoning, and although Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed with it, he wasn’t exactly predisposed to like the decision. The fact that Mycroft had also taken the executive decision to disallow any contact between the two of them only made him hate the decision more.

“Hello!” Molly’s warm call caused the two of them to turn. Where Felix gave a large grin, dropped his now empty ice cream cone onto the pavement and promptly barrelled himself towards her, letting himself be scooped up into her arms, Sherlock merely stood back and watched, only allowing an edge of a smile to appear on his face.

“You have a good time at the zoo today?”

Felix nodded eagerly.

“Yep! Me and Sherlock, we went to see the lions and look what I got!” Proudly, he held the stuffed lion aloft and Molly laughed, kissing at the top of his head.

“I am so glad you had so much fun! And I see you had ice cream as well! Did Uncle Sherlock have some too?”

“No, he said it would make his brain freeze.”

Molly, still grinning, tilted her head at Sherlock and cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s been scientifically proven that ice cream can—”

“Hush,” Molly said, flapping a hand before she made to step into the block of flats, hugging Felix tight. “C’mon, we need to get some supper. I’m hungry. You hungry?”

“Very – but I am pretty full up on ice cream.”

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to skip pudding then – Sherlock, could you grab my bag?”

He started at this, blinking. “What, you want me to—?”

Molly turned her head, a look crossing her face that told him she thought his joining them was entirely obvious. Indeed, she didn’t need to say anything else before Sherlock had picked the bag up and headed into the lobby with the pair of them.

* * *

The flat itself was larger than most, but still too small to be called sprawling. On entering, Molly took Felix, who had grown remarkably sleepy during their journey up to the flat, straight to his bedroom. It was with an ever growing smile that Sherlock moved forward and leaned against the doorway, watching as Molly settled her son into bed. The afternoon at the zoo had only confirmed something which Sherlock had already suspected; in an astonishing amount of ways, Felix was exactly like Molly. Like her, he was quiet, yet had a sprawling imagination and an ability to play, but he also had an astonishing amount of pragmatism about him. Perhaps it was that similarity in personality that made their relationship such a closely-knit one.

Moving away, Sherlock sighed softly and stepped into the living room, settling onto the sofa and tipping his head back. Seven years had done a lot for Molly’s taste in furnishings. Before, she seemed to have a pathological need to fill the spaces in which she lived with throws, flowery patterned cushions and trinkets she had found in charity shops and during car boot sales. (She had forced him to come along to one of those once, which was a bad idea all around really, considering he had soon deduced that some so-called ‘rare antiques’ were actually just badly painted knockoffs and ended up having to run away from a particularly irate, rather large, car boot seller.)

Having a child though, had tempered such urges. Sure, the flowery patterned cushions had stayed, and she hadn’t quite released herself of her need for a throw or two, but the trinkets had gone, replaced by children’s toys and somehow, converse to the norm, becoming a mother had made her become much tidier. Everything had their own little storage box, or own little corner were they had been hastily grouped. The thought that she had hurriedly tidied up before his arrival that afternoon passed through him, but was hastily dismissed with a chuckle and a shake of the head.

“Sherlock?” He looked up to find Molly stood at the doorway to Felix’s room.

“Yes?”

“Felix wants you to help me read to him.” She tilted her head, biting at her bottom lip a little. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

Sherlock frowned as he stood, pulling at the hem of his jacket. “Me? What for?”

Molly gave a sigh and a one-shouldered shrug. “No idea. He said you’ve got the correct audio pattern for it. But would you, just this once?”

“No, of course – no problem,” Sherlock said with a smile, moving back towards Felix’s bedroom as Molly grinned and ducked inside. Shutting the door behind him, he found her sat beside Felix with her legs tucked underneath herself and her arm wrapped around Felix’s shoulders, holding him close. Felix, at that point deathly focused on the book in his hands, immediately snapped his head up and grinned as Sherlock stepped inside, shifting a little so Sherlock could sit on his other side. Seeing the book in Felix’s hands, he raised an eyebrow.

“Lord of the Rings?” he asked incredulously.

“He has a high reading age,” Molly said and she wrinkled her nose at him before she turned her attention back to Felix. “Right, now where were we?”

“Tom Bombadil!” Felix said cheerfully, pulling the book open. Molly’s smile widened.

“That’s right – do you want me to start?”

Felix shook his head. “No, I want Uncle Sherlock to.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but blink. Uncle Sherlock? Well, that was unexpected, to say the least. What was especially unexpected was the way in which Sherlock found himself smiling widely as a result and well, how very right the idea of being named as such actually felt.

* * *

Gently, Molly closed the door behind her and with a sigh, leaned against it. She flicked her warm, brown-eyed gaze up at Sherlock and smiled.

“Thank you for doing that,” she whispered, stepping away and into the kitchen. “And for doing the voices too.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes shining playfully. “In fact, I’m starting to think you got into it far more than I did.”

Sherlock gave a shrug. “He asked me to do the voices, so I did the voices.”

Giving a laugh, Molly stepped back into the hallway, an open wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. “You didn’t have to do the motions and the gestures as well – but then you’ve always gone above and beyond the call of duty. Anyway – do you want to join me for a glass? Been a long day.”

“Very much so,” Sherlock said and he followed Molly into the living room where he found her already curled up on the sofa and an open photo album in her lap. Even from his vantage point in the doorway, he could see the photographs of his younger self, and the sight made him roll his eyes.

“Do you really need to look through that?” he scoffed, pouring out a glass of wine for the pair of them. He almost felt Molly sticking out her tongue at him.

“Yes!” she protested, taking the glass he offered out to her. She continued to flick through the pages. “I have to say though: you haven’t changed a bit from these photographs.”

“Oh? In what way?”

“You’re still a grumpy git,” Molly teased and she pointed out one photograph where he appeared particularly sullen, his hands tucked under his chin. “Honestly, is it so hard to smile?”

“Apparently, yes. Wait – I haven’t seen – where’s that from?” he asked, brows furrowing, pointing to another, smaller photograph. It was of him, but he was noticeably less sullen than any other photographs Molly may have had of him. Instead, he was sat at his computer, typing away, totally oblivious to the presence of the camera. He almost looked at peace.

“Oh, that one. Do you remember that day we spent solving crimes?”

“Vaguely.” A lie: he remembered it vividly.

“I took that when we were waiting for your next client to arrive. You were so focused on your typing, you barely noticed me.”

“No,” Sherlock mused. “I would’ve noticed you.”

It was only when silence began to creep over them that he realised the weight of his words. Molly shifted a little, sitting up straighter, with her grip around her wine glass tight as she took a gulp. Sherlock lowered his gaze, checking his watch.

“It’s getting late,” he muttered, “and it’s been a pretty long day, so I should…”

He left the rest of the sentence to dissolve on the tip of his tongue and rapidly rose to his feet, making for the hook where his coat waited. Molly called his name, a firm question for him to stay. Sighing, he tilted his head at her and gave a shrug. Her mouth lightly dropped open, words right on the precipice of her tongue. Shaking her head a little, she nodded towards his watch.

“That watch... Didn’t I—?”

“It’s the one you gave me for Christmas, yes.” Sherlock grabbed at his coat and shrugging it on, shoving his hands into the pockets. When he spoke again, he did not look to her. “Goodnight, Molly.”

He closed the door behind him. Molly leaned back against the sofa, folding her arms over her knees. Frowning, she took one last sip of her wine. Standing, she gently set it down beside Sherlock’s own abandoned glass. The photo album lay open, forgotten.

* * *

_Important documents have been recently been lost. Suspected mole in the Cabinet. The Prime Minister wishes you to retrieve them. – MH_

_It has been three weeks since your last case. Surely you must be getting bored by now. – MH_

_The freedom of the Western world is under threat, Sherlock. Answer your phone. – MH_

“Who’s that?” Molly asked lightly, sitting down on the bench beside Sherlock. On seeing the candy floss in her hand and the mouse ears atop her head, he stifled a laugh, to which she elbowed him.

“Shut up. I’m a mother; I’m _supposed_ to get involved with this sort of thing.”

“Mm. It’s Mycroft, by the way.”

“Oh.” She crossed her legs, taking an experimental bite of the candy floss. Her scrunched up nose and the way in which she tightly screwed her eyes shut gave away just how much it was not to her taste. Discreetly, she leaned over to throw it into a nearby bin. Sherlock chuckled, just as his phone made a noise for the fourth time in ten minutes.

_I will tell Mummy. – MH_

Sighing, he pulled at his glove with his teeth, tugging it away from his hand, and swiftly typed off a reply.

_Busy. Get one of your men to sort it out – SH_

“There – that should get rid of him.” Sherlock stuffed his phone back into his trouser pocket and glanced around the funfair. Nearby, there was Felix, studiously and valiantly attempting to hit at a row of coconuts. He was successful for the most part, except for the times he almost hit the vendor instead of any of the coconuts.

“How does he deal with it?” At Sherlock’s question, Molly whipped her head around to look at him, and narrowed her eyes.

“Deal with what?”

Sherlock’s phone beeped again. Fetching it from his pocket, he continued to focus on Molly. “The fact that his father is a sperm donor.”

“Oh, that. His birth story.”

“Is that what you call it?” Sherlock asked with a soft chuckle, glancing down at his phone.

_This isn’t funny, Sherlock. The world’s safety is at stake. – MH_

“Yeah.” Molly gave a sigh, lightly brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I had to think of something to tell him, so I – Sherlock, are you _sure_ you’re not too busy? I’ve got it covered here; if Mycroft needs you—”

Sherlock shook his head, typing at his phone screen. “No, he’s just being dramatic. Runs in the family.”

_It’s a particularly painful cavity I take it? SH_

He’d barely sent off the message before another message came through. He couldn’t help but smile.

_If it’s really not urgent, can I have your attention now?_

He looked up, and Molly burst out a giggle, switching off her own phone and dropping it back into her bag. Getting the message—both literally and figuratively—Sherlock obediently turned off his own phone and shoved it into his coat pocket, crossing his hands against his stomach.

“Right – birth story.”

Molly huffed, rolling her eyes a little.

“You’re such a…” She considered him, but waved a hand. “Anyhow – Felix deals with it pretty well. When he was younger, I did try to tell him about the stork and what have you—”

“Ah, yes. You loved him so much that the magical stork dropped him on your doorstop. A mistake, I assume.”

“Pretty much. Well, he believed it for the first few years – but then he found Google.” Molly gave a heavy sigh, pressing her hand to her forehead but she smiled all the same. “God. I found him reading up on sperm donation. Bloody Wikipedia.”

“How did he take it?”

“Pretty well, considering the circumstances.” She giggled. “He actually sat me down and very sternly told me that although I had been dishonest with him, he knew it came from a good place, and he wasn’t going to go into therapy in later life as a result.”

A laugh practically belted out of Sherlock and Molly smacked him lightly in the chest.

“It’s not _funny!_ ” she insisted, but he continued to quietly laugh. She bit at her cheek. “He calls his dad a Viking now.”

Sherlock spluttered another laugh, but soon swallowed it on seeing the withering glare Molly aimed at him and he arranged his features into a look of innocent curiosity.

“Viking?”

“I have no idea. Something about trades.”

“Mum!” Felix turned, waving at Molly, beckoning her over and pointing to an increasingly exasperated vendor. “The man says I need money to play another game!”

Her smile grew as she shook her head and stood, withdrawing her purse from her bag.

“Sorry about this,” she said, grimacing slightly. “Back in a minute!”

Sherlock watched her move away. Trades? Viking? Interesting. He rose to his feet and moved towards the coconut shy stand, tapping Molly on the shoulder.

“Molly – what was the name of your donor?”

“Oh, um – Donald. Donald Brady,” Molly answered distractedly, now more focused on throwing a shot at the coconuts. Sherlock frowned. Donald? Donald.

“Donald…” he muttered under his breath. Something, a phrase, a turn of words, was on the tip of his tongue, obscured by _something_. Moving back to the bench and sitting, Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his hands to his mouth. “Donald the…”

He opened his eyes. _Donald the donor._

Oh.

* * *

Rubbing at his eyes, John ambled down the stairs, towards his front door and swung it open to be met with the ruffled, haggard, worried face of his best friend and consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

“John,” he said quickly. “I think I’m having a mild panic attack.”

“Really?” After so many years of knowing the detective, John had grown into the habit of receiving such dramatic declarations with a large pinch of cynicism. Nevertheless, he stepped back and allowed Sherlock to enter, shutting the door behind him.

“Okay – what’s the cause of this mild panic attack?”

“That’s…” Sherlock clicked his tongue against his teeth in thought, sighing slightly as he searched for the right words. “That’s difficult to explain.”

“Then start from the beginning,” John replied, quickly ushering Sherlock into the kitchen. The consulting detective leaned against the worktop as John settled himself into one of the chairs. Sherlock let out a shaking breath.

“John – I think – _think_ – I might be Felix’s…”

“Felix’s _what?_ ”

Sherlock turned his head. The memories were so hazy, so blurred. That was the trouble. “Donald…” he whispered. “Vikings… charity…”

“Are you sure you haven’t had anything to drink?” John asked slowly, eyeing Sherlock warily. “Because you’re getting weird again.”

“No, not drunk – just – confused. Frostrup… _Donald_ … Oh God.” Sherlock sank his fingers into his hair and carefully slid onto the floor, wrapping himself into a small ball. John sighed and made to stand.

“You _are_ drunk – I can’t bloody believe this, I’ll have to phone Molly—”

“I’m Felix’s father.”

John froze. His eyes widened, his features draining of colour. Achingly slowly, he sat back down.

“How in God’s name is that possible?”

“The party,” Sherlock explained, his words faltering. A side effect of the shock he was feeling he supposed. “I – I was in the bathroom – and Donald’s – _act_ – it was sat there. I think I – knocked it somehow? And I – I switched it, John.”

There was a heavy silence as the two men, equally as dumbfounded as the other, let Sherlock’s realisation seep into their minds. Quietly, John stood and crouched down in front of Sherlock, pressing his palm against his friend’s shoulder.

“Sherlock – you have to tell Molly.”

“I really don’t, I—”

“No. _No._ You cannot let this one go. You have to tell her.”

Sherlock whined—for the first time in over twenty years, he had actually _whined_ —and sunk his head lower into his hands, curling up tighter against himself. He couldn’t tell her; he just couldn’t. It would complicate everything. For three weeks, he had been Uncle Sherlock. If he revealed the truth, he wouldn’t be that anymore. He would be… he would be The Viking. And being The Viking would mean responsibility. It would mean obligations. It would mean _change._ Sherlock felt a shudder go up through his spine.

“I don’t want to be the Viking,” he mumbled, hugging his knees to his chest. John smiled coldly.

“You don’t have a choice mate – you are. Now go and _tell_ her.”

* * *

Straightening himself up, Sherlock threw back his shoulders, breathed through his nose and pressed the buzzer for Molly’s flat. A voice soon came floating through the intercom.

“Hello?”

A heavy sigh of relief escaped Sherlock and his shoulders sank forwards. “Felix. What are you doing up?”

“Had a nightmare,” Felix replied. “Mum said I could watch a DVD. I’ll buzz you in, okay?”

The front door to the block of flats duly buzzed and Sherlock stepped through, somewhat amazed that the ferocity of his growing nerves hadn’t caused him to stay rooted to the spot. He advanced up the stairs two at a time and came to stand in front of Molly’s door. Clearing his throat, he gave two rapid knocks. On the second, the door swung open and he was met by Felix.

“Hi Uncle Sherlock. Mum’s in the kitchen.” Sherlock nodded, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him as Felix wandered off, heading back into the living room and jumping onto the sofa, sitting cross-legged as the film continued to play. Tempering any urges he had to immediately turn and run away, Sherlock forced himself to enter the kitchen. Hearing the door shut, Molly—busy stirring a cup of tea—smiled up at him.

“Hey – is everything alright? Because if it’s do with a case or something, it’ll have to wait until morning. Felix had this nightmare you see, and I don’t want to leave him alone.”

“It’s not to do with a case, no.” He stepped forward. “I – um – just needed to talk,” he muttered, clearing his throat and shoving his hands into pockets. Molly put her spoon to one side and picked up her tea, gently blowing on it, her gaze gentle and kind and inviting. Her words, unspoken though they were, were audible to him. _Go ahead._ He puffed out a breath, closing his eyes. In theory, it was easy: he just had to say it, and tell her the truth. In practice? Not so much. Fidgeting, worrying at his bottom lip, he automatically began to pace.

“Molly, as you remember – I said this to you, years ago, but you’ll probably still remember it – you are the one person who matters the most, especially to me. So you know that I wouldn’t say this, at least not without any meaning or motivation behind it—”

“Sherlock – Sherlock!” He juddered to a stop as Molly gave a little, light laugh. Shaking her head, she put her tea to one side and smiled, leaning against the worktop. “I know what you have to say.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed.

“You do?” He tempered the panic in his voice with a clearing of his throat. “I – I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” she said with a shrug. “I mean, this isn’t exactly the way I’d have expected you to tell me, but then I guess life never goes the way you plan, does it? I have got one request to make of you though, Sherlock.”

“Request?”

She nodded. “Mm. Well, it’s just so – um – sudden. So I’m going to have to ask for a little time.”

“Time,” Sherlock echoed. He gave a nod. All things considered, she was taking this remarkably well. “I can give you time.”

Molly bit back a smile and for a brief moment, she closed her eyes in relief.

“Thank you Sherlock. I know you probably expected fireworks and champagne, because you know,” she laughed nervously, “I’ve always held a torch for you, but I just need some time to – adjust, you know what I mean?”

“Adjust?” Sherlock said, as if the word were foreign to his tongue. Adjust? _Adjust._ Ah.

Molly’s smile faded. She swallowed. “Please tell me you were going to say what I thought you were going to say.”

Sherlock slowly shook his head.

“Oh God.” Molly’s voice came out as more of a squeak. She half-coughed, half-gasped, her hand flying to cover her chest, but the panic was still apparent. “Right. Um, let’s just forget what I said, okay? Um, it was – I was – uh – I’m kind of in this Donald thing anyway – um, no, it was stupid, um… Night!” Her cheeks rosy red, she ducked past Sherlock and ran out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to remain rooted to the spot as he attempted to process precisely what had happened.

He blinked, and narrowed his eyes. “Donald?”

Finally, he began to move, heading towards the living room. Molly was nowhere to be seen.

“Felix?” Sherlock asked. “Where’s your—?”

There was no answer given by the little boy ( _your son_ , the John inside his mind palace reminded him) but Felix did point downwards. Moving forward and leaning against the back of the sofa, he found Molly lying flat on her back, her hands clasped against her face. Sensing that her admittedly weak cover was now blown, she risked a peek through her fingers and Sherlock felt himself smile.

“Can we – forget this entire evening happened? Please?”

Sherlock let out a breath, which Molly would no doubt take as a token of his amusement, and not of the relief that was flooding through him. He widened his smile. “Already forgotten. Goodnight Felix.”

Coat billowing out behind him, he left. Scrambling up, Molly shut the door behind him and slumped against it. Switching off the television, Felix pulled himself up, turning to look at his mother.

“Mum?”

“Yes, Felix?”

“Is Uncle Sherlock still coming to my birthday party?”

Molly sighed happily and drew herself away from the door, stepping towards her son and cupping at his face.

“Of _course_ he is sweetie.” She drew her fingers through his curls. “He wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Even though you told him you liked him?”

“Yes. Even though I—” She paused, dropping her hands to her sides. “Hang on. Were you eavesdropping again?”

“No. Your voices carry.”

A blush crept across Molly’s cheeks, but she quickly shook her head and waved a hand. “You know what, this is a _very_ complicated situation – let’s get you into bed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go - the third and final part to this story. Took a lot of (figurative) teeth-pulling, this did. Maybe that made it better - I dunno. You be the judge. I have very little else to say in regards to this story except to thank the Tumblr anon who requested the story in the first place and to thank absolutely everyone who has bookmarked, left kudos and jotted down a comment or two on this story. Thank you very much, and please, enjoy!

Entering inside, Sherlock found the hall to be a cacophony of noise. A game of Blind Man's Bluff was being played. Among the noise was the centre of attention, Felix. Wearing a blindfold, he happily stumbled and zigzagged around his group of friends, laughing as they sidestepped him.

Blindfolded as he was, he only knew of Sherlock's presence when he bumped into him. Delighted, Felix reached out and clutched tightly at the hem of Sherlock's coat.

"Ha!" he cried. "I got you!"

Letting out a chuckle, Sherlock crouched down and reached around to remove the blindfold. It fell away with ease and Felix fixed his brown eyes on Sherlock.

"You're here!"

Sherlock gave a nod. "Yes I am."

"See, I was worried, because I thought you wouldn't, because of your feelings for my mum."

Sherlock swallowed slightly. Molly's perception, coupled with the blunter side of his nature. It was a lethal cocktail indeed.

"I wouldn't have missed the party for the world."

Felix perked up. "Hey! That's what my mum said!"

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, with a quirk of an eyebrow, and he reached into his pocket, bringing out a small, well wrapped present. "Here's your present – if you want it, of course."

Felix nodded. "Of course I do!" Eagerly, he took the present from Sherlock's fingers and ripped at the wrapping paper until a pair of safety glasses fell out onto his open palm. He made a quick noise of delight.

"Cool!" He slipped them on, and he blinked, eyes shining. "They fit me exactly!"

"Of course they do – they are your safety glasses after all," Sherlock said and he tapped gently at the side of the glasses, where the letters _FH_ were expertly engraved. "They've got your initials."

"What's got your initials?" Molly's voice was bright and cheerful, but that didn't appear to reassure Sherlock's internal organs. For on hearing her voice and her footsteps, he could feel his stomach flip over several times like he weren't a grown man but once more a gawky schoolboy who didn't quite know how limbs worked. Still, he somehow managed to straighten up and greet her with a smile. Molly, tucking her hair back behind her ear, looked to her— _their_ , Sherlock realised with a jolt—son.

"Did Uncle Sherlock give those to you? You look incredibly clever in them."

Felix blinked again. "But I _am_ incredibly clever."

Either Felix had known since he was young that Sherlock was his true father and this was all an entirely contrived plan to throw him and Molly together, or since the discovery of his drunken misdemeanour, the traits he and Felix shared were just all the more obvious. (The latter was more likely.) Watching Felix quickly run off, chattering about his new glasses, and leaving Sherlock and Molly to stand in silence, Sherlock's mouth twitched with a quick smile. He cleared his throat.

"Good – um – party." Well, that was one way to start a conversation. A crap way, but still, a way.

"Yeah." Molly laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Felix wanted it to be at the Science Museum, but that was too expensive at short notice, so Donald – he, uh, paid for the hall."

" _He_ – paid for it?"

"It wasn't much – his friend owns the hall, he managed to get a discount—"

"Having fun then?" On cue, Donald seemed to bound up to the pair of them and came to stand by Molly's side.

"Oh, we were just discussing the hall – nothing big," she said with a genial smile. Despite their close proximity, neither of them was outwardly affectionate to the other, with only smiles and short glances being exchanged. So whatever _thing_ they were in was no doubt hovering around the area of romance, but not yet totally there, so to speak.

"Saw Felix," Donald noted. "He was wearing a, a pair of safety glasses? I mean, Christ – who gets those for a kid?"

"I do." Sherlock's tone was icy, and Donald's smile dropped. Molly swallowed, shuffling on the spot.

"I'm sorry, my mouth runs—" The doors flinging open, broke off whatever apology Donald had prepared and a party clown of all people burst inside, his clothing predictably colourful and his voice booming. Apparently thankful for the interruption (if his grateful sigh was anything to go by), Donald jogged towards the group of children and ushered them towards the stage, Felix right at the front of them.

"Donald's idea?" Sherlock asked.

"Yep." There was a tangible edge of dread in her voice. "Donald's idea."

The clown got to work, telling jokes and performing tricks, and all of the children laughed as they were meant to, including Felix. His laughter, however, soon faded into a wary, closed frown when the clown, clearly believing this gig of his to be going rather well, grabbed at Felix's hand and pulled him onto the stage. With a clear flourish, he made a bouquet of paper flowers pop from out of his hand. Yet Felix, clearly uncomfortable, only shook his head, mumbling softly. The clown leaned forward.

"What's that kiddo?"

"That isn't magic," Felix said, raising his voice. "You had the flowers hidden up your sleeve."

The clown chuckled uneasily. He leaned further forward. "C'mon. Why don't you smell my flower?"

"No," Felix said, stubbornly clenching his fists. "You've got a small water pump hidden in that flower, I know it, and you'll just spray me with water—"

"Oh God," Molly said quietly and she watched the clown, shaking her head, her fingers rubbing slowly against her temple. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, following when she began to step forward.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"Felix… he's – I think he's about to—"

She didn't have to say anything more. Sherlock had already half-figured it out. Lowered gaze, clenched fists, rushed speech? It was quite clear that Felix was heading towards the beginning stages of a panic attack.

Pity really, that the clown was so intent on lightening the increasingly tense mood. With a booming laugh from the clown, water quickly sprayed from the flower and all over Felix's new safety glasses.

" _Gerroff!_ " Felix shouted, his cheeks flushing red and his hands flying to his face, ripping his safety glasses from his face. "You're a rubbish clown!"

With that, he ran from the hall.

* * *

They found him in the cloak room, obscured by coats, the safety glasses—still spattered with water—now abandoned on the bench and only his dark shoes, tatty and well-loved, visible. With Molly following on behind, Sherlock stepped towards the cloak room. As soon as they stepped past the doorway, Felix spoke, small and soft from within his hiding place.

"I'm sorry."

"Give me a minute?" Sherlock asked, but Molly frowned.

"What are you going to do?"

"Just going to talk to him, that's all." Quietly as he was able, Sherlock made gradual steps towards Felix and crouched in front of him. Brown eyes, brown eyes so very similar to that of his mother's, peeked out from the nest of coats.

"Did I do something bad?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you didn't. Everyone panics from time to time."

Just by an inch, Felix pushed the coats further aside, his brow creasing into a tiny frown. "Even you?"

"Yes, even me. Did I ever tell you about the case I took at Baskerville?"

"No. What's Baskerville?"

"A big army place, based in Devon. Mostly a place for experiments – some good, some bad, I suppose it depends on the scientist – but I was hired by a man who was often very scared. He claimed that his father had been eaten by a large hound. 'Hound' was actually what got me on the case. Who has, after all, ever used the word 'hound'? Not since the 1800s, surely. Of course, it actually turned out to be nothing more than a suppressed memory, and the hound he 'remembered' was actually an acronym for an illegal drug experiment that took place in the 1960s, but that doesn't matter right now – what matters is that, for a time, I believed that this giant hound existed. And I panicked."

Felix, who had shifted forward, listened in rapture as Sherlock weaved his tale. When all was finished, a giggle burst forth from his mouth.

"You got scared by a phantom dog?"

"Mm – not my proudest moment, I will admit. It was a combination of sighting a rabid dog while being doped up from the drug, triggered by pressure pads hidden in the ground. Very clever, actually. One of my best cases." Sherlock straightened his shoulders and picked up the abandoned safety goggles, swiftly cleaning them before he put them on back onto Felix. "People get scared by the most unexpected of things. In my case, it was a phantom dog – in your case, a rubbish party clown."

He drew back to stand, but stopped when he felt Felix's weight press against him in a large hug. His immediate response was to freeze—his son, _his son_ , was hugging him—but as the small boy hugged his neck, Sherlock found himself hesitantly enveloping Felix in a hug that was just as tight.

"Everything sorted then?" Molly asked, moving forward. Nodding, Felix drew away from Sherlock and walked towards his mother as she knelt in front of him.

"I'm sorry Mum," he mumbled, but Molly shook her head, waving a hand.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You're forgiven. Anyway, Uncle Sherlock was right – everyone gets scared. And, to tell you the truth…" She looped her fingers around her son's wrists, smiling a conspiratorial smile. Her voice was a gentle whisper when she spoke again. "I've never been much of a fan of clowns anyway!"

Felix giggled again and the door clicked open. Donald looked around the door, wearing an apologetic grimace of a smile. "The, uh, clown's been paid, and sent away – the rest of the kids are back to playing Blind Man's Bluff."

"Oh, right – thank you Donald." Molly got to her feet and rubbed at Felix's shoulders, grinning at him. "How about we go and open the rest of your presents then?"

Felix nodded in answer, and the pair of them quickly left, with Molly throwing a smile over her shoulder at Sherlock.

"Well," Donald said with a sigh, circling around to stand beside Sherlock, failing to notice (or perhaps choosing to fail to notice) the indignant glare directed at him as a consequence. "That was eventful."

"Mm."

"How do you do it?"

The question came rather out of the blue, and Sherlock could do little but let his mouth drop open in surprise. His default answer immediately bled out from underneath his tongue, but Donald shook his head.

"No – not the deduction thing – I meant with Felix. How do you cope with his – neuroses?"

"You've got children," Sherlock muttered. "Surely you'd know better than I would."

"Well, yeah, but…" Donald gave a helpless shrug and for a glimmer of a moment, Sherlock could see where his sense of hopelessness was originating from. Yes, he was already a father, but (presumably) he had been involved in the lives of those children since the moment of conception. Felix was different. Felix was a charitable act he had made seven years ago. He wasn't to know that particular charitable act had been accidentally spilled by the very man he was talking to, but then, not everyone could know everything.

"The neuroses you seem so afraid of don't actually exist. They're habits, if they're anything, and every child has them. Of course, I can't speak for your children, because I haven't met them, but I'm sure they have a habit or a series of habits you have to 'put up' with. Felix is inquisitive, and therefore observes anything and everything – including the mechanics behind the tricks of a rubbish party clown." He squared his shoulders a little, tilting his head towards Donald. "If you were wise, you'd return the favour."

* * *

Mary leaned against the bathroom doorway and slyly checked her watch. Her daughter happily brushed her teeth, her teddy bear shoved under one arm. Her mouth moved quickly with the force of her chatter.

"Felix is funny isn't he?" she asked brightly, leaning forward to spit into the sink. "I knew it was a good idea to become friends with him – but then, his Mummy's your friend, so it's only logical he should be my friend too."

Fiddling at the hem of her pyjamas, Mary bit back a laugh. "Logical? Is that why you made friends with him then?"

Ruby's brow creased into an entirely adorable frown. "I told you – I made friends with him because he's funny. He was really funny with that clown." She grinned, looking to her mother. "Just like Uncle Sherlock!"

Mary dropped her hand back to her side. Yes— _just_ like Uncle Sherlock.

"I suppose he was…" Mary said quietly. Seeing her mother fall into such deep thought, Ruby's frown deepened and she turned her head.

"Mum? Everything okay?"

Mary snapped her head up at the call of her daughter and grinned. "Yes, fine. Thank you baby. Right – have you got your teeth all brushed? Yes? Good – let's get you to bed."

She steered Ruby from the bathroom but despite Ruby's customary whining that she wasn't at all tired and could stay up all night if she wanted to; she still dropped straight off to sleep almost as soon as her head touched her pillow. Softly wishing her goodnight, Mary pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

* * *

On shutting the door to the bedroom, she found John already in their bed, his reading glasses on (he hadn't needed them for the first few years of their marriage, but constant reading of GP records had taken its toll on his eyesight, much to his consternation, even though Mary wasn't exactly one to complain) and a book in his lap. He welcomed her with a smile and a brief kiss.

"Ruby got off to sleep okay?"

"We had the customary chatter, so she was fine." Mary sat on the edge of the bed, beginning to change. "Did you talk to Donald today?"

"Donald?" John frowned.

"Molly's new boyfriend," she answered. "Well, I say boyfriend – whenever I asked, she just changed the subject."

"Oh. So not boyfriend?"

"No idea – but I, um, I can't help but think he might just be another Tom."

Her husband's lips thinned considerably. Frowning, he pushed his glasses onto his forehead.

"How did you know?"

"Female instinct?" Mary suggested. If the further deepening of John's frown was anything to go by, then such an answer had not convinced him. She shrugged, tugging her pyjama top over her head. "Or maybe Ruby pointed out their similarities."

" _Whose_ similarities?" John asked carefully, but Mary rolled her eyes.

"Are we really going to play that game?" She clambered onto the bed and cupped at her husband's cheeks. Smiling, she kissed at his forehead. "C'mon. You know who I'm talking about – and I know who you're talking about. We can be candid with each other, you know."

John, pushing his smile at his wife's words to one side, flicked his glasses back onto his nose. "I knew Sherlock teaching her about deduction was always going to be a bad thing."

"Mm," Mary replied, laying her head on his shoulder. "What do you think we should do?"

"Well, nothing good comes out of interfering," John mused as he shut his book. "Maybe we should just – let it play out?"

"Let it play out." Mary plucked the book from John's fingers, flipping it over with her hands. Letting it play out would inevitably mean having to watch, for weeks, Sherlock dither over the best way, the best _time_ , to tell Molly what had happened seven years ago. But interfering? She and John could nag Sherlock as many times as they liked, but he'd still do nothing. The two courses of action would inevitably end with huge emotional consequences. In the end, it was more a choice of which would cause the least amount of damage.

* * *

If Sherlock had been mildly distrusting of Donald before, he vehemently disliked the man now. Ever since he had provided his little piece of so-called advice after the 'clown incident' (Donald's words, not his), the man had proved maddeningly keen to follow through on said advice. He spent practically all of his time taking up Molly's, dragging her and Felix out on day trips to museums and parks and even the damn zoo. Every time Sherlock stepped inside her flat now, gifts and souvenirs from various attractions continued to engulf the flat, all colourful and pristine and brand new. The price tag was still on most of them.

"Have you ever stopped to consider the idea that you might be jealous of Donald?" Mycroft asked silkily, dropping the case file onto the coffee table between them.

"I'm working, leave me alone." He attempted to delve back inside the comfort of his mind palace, but his brother's continuing presence proved a sizable obstacle. He flicked his eyes to look back up at him, turning his head just the smallest amount. "What exactly makes you think I'm _jealous?_ "

"Because, Sherlock, I just told you about a homicide of a small-level politician, and you barely batted an eyelid."

"I've no interest in your stupid political games, Mycroft. That was established long ago."

"Whereas John here mentions in passing Molly's trip to the Peak District with Donald, and you—" Mycroft paused. "Aha. _There_ it is."

Sherlock only realised he had bolted upright when he saw a snide smile creep onto his dear brother's equally snide face. John's poorly stifled snort bolstered that realisation. Coolly, he settled back into his chair and tucked his hands underneath his chin.

"I'm not jealous. Whoever Molly wishes to spend time with is no business of mine. We are, after all, friends. Friends don't become jealous."

A sentence sounding suspiciously like 'friends my arse' came out of John's mouth in a mumble, but the man only smiled innocently when Sherlock side-eyed him. Before any chance to verbally remonstrate his best friend could make itself known however, the familiar trill of Sherlock's phone had the consulting detective on his feet in a flash.

"Molly?" he asked. Behind him, Mycroft made an obnoxiously knowing noise with his throat.

"Sherlock, hi." She was breathless. Had she been running? He hoped she'd been running. "I need your help."

"What with?"

"Um, I'm in the Peak District at the moment and, well, I'm actually up the side of a mountain right now—" So that accounted for the breathlessness.

"The side of a mountain?" he echoed. Probably was Donald's idea of a good day out. It would've been.

"Yes, I needed signal and I couldn't get it in the cottage – but anyway. I'm up here with Donald, and Felix wanted to stay with a friend for the weekend, but I just had a call, and apparently Felix has got lice."

"Lice?" He stepped into the kitchen. Maybe from there he wouldn't be able to feel the waves of know-it-all smugness that radiated from his brother.

"Yes – please don't… Sherlock this, alright? There's no need to make this into a bigger situation than it actually is."

Sherlock paused in his habitual pacing. "Molly, you just used my name as a verb."

"It's a habit," she snapped, immediately sighing. "Sorry – it's really _cold_ up here. Wore a coat but it's still – anyway, I need you to pick up Felix and look after him, only for tonight. I'll be back tomorrow morning, I absolutely promise. Will you do it?"

Sherlock glanced around the kitchen door. John, still slurping up his tea, ignored him. His brother flipped through the previously discarded folder, his smug smirk still affixed to his features. "My brother's currently waiting for me to accept a case for him – something to do with a politically-motivated murder."

"Sounds interesting."

"Could be. Problem is, he's solved it already," Sherlock said, throwing himself down on a kitchen chair and propping his legs up on the table. "I know because he's being particularly smug today. Even more unbearable than usual. Anyway, the killer was sloppy – saw it in the case file Mycroft forced me to look at – they left practically a trail of clues at every crime scene. I'm sure they're already being arrested, probably right about now. Mycroft's just convinced that if he doesn't 'keep me busy', I'll go off and do something stupid."

"Can't imagine where he got that from."

"Neither can I." Sherlock quirked a smile. "Anyway, I'm sure Felix's lice will prove a sight more interesting than an already solved case."

On the other end of the line, the wind crackling against her words, Molly half-laughed in relief.

"So you'll do it then? Great! Thank you so much, Sherlock. There are a _few_ things you'll need to do though."

"What sort of things, exactly?"

She hesitated, and in his mind's eye he could see her, atop a mountain in nothing more than boots and what she believed to be sensible clothing, chewing at her bottom lip with her hand pressed to her temple.

"Okay…" she said. "Have you got a pen with you?"

* * *

Being the only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock often found that he could often alter that job description and what it entailed at whatever time and in whatever situation that suited him. Yet he doubted that his title could stretch to sitting in a bathroom, steadily combing dead lice from the hairs of a small child as a dryer, filled to the brim with washed bed linen pounded around and around, sounding more and more unhealthy with every cycle.

"This comb hurts."

"I think it's supposed to," Sherlock said thoughtfully, scooping out another set of eggs.

"Why though?" Felix pouted. "Is it to remind me not to have lice again? Because I didn't _want_ to have lice – I have baths all the time."

"Clean hair, dirty hair. Makes no real difference," Sherlock said with a shrug. He'd had to endure enough nit combing at the hands of his mother in his younger years to know that.

"Liam at school says it does."

"Liam is like most people then – he's a moron."

"I'm like most people," Felix said softly, and Sherlock heard John scoff derisively inside the walls of his mind. _The kid of the great Sherlock Holmes? Normal? Hardly._

"Then you're an exception," he said. "Now keep your head still, I need to catch every last one of these lice."

The rest of the 'lice capturing' process took an painstakingly quiet half an hour or so—aware of the concentration needed by Sherlock, Felix had barely said a word after their minute snatch of conversation—and by that time, the bed linen was washed and dried. Grabbing it from the dryer, he deftly made Felix's bed, only to look up and see Felix stood in his doorway, as always clutching at his stuffed lion but with his mouth dropped open in an 'o' shape. Sherlock chuckled. He'd surprised many people in many ways over many years, but he doubted he'd ever surprised someone with his level of domestic competence.

"Mum said that you didn't do stuff like that." His statement was blank, without teasing, without malice. Sherlock shrugged and pulled back the blankets for Felix to climb into bed. He burrowed happily underneath the blankets and Sherlock sat down at his side.

"Even machines need to do some things, Felix. I can't rely on Mrs Hudson for everything – as much as I'd like to." He gave a smile, but Felix only wore a sincere, deep, frown of concentration. Sherlock straightened up slightly. "What?"

Felix's eyebrows knitted together in a frown. Silently, he sat up and he reached forward. Still with that frown of concentration, he pressed his palm against Sherlock's chest.

"You have a heartbeat." Sherlock's smile dropped. What exactly was he doing? Of course he had a heartbeat. Felix looked up at him, a matter-of-fact smile on his mouth. "Humans have heartbeats. Machines don't. Basics of biology."

Felix might have inherited his ability to observe and his inability to sugar coat things, but if there was one trait of his mother's personality, it was her compassion. Compassion that had, in the past, saved his life.

"Right. I'll—" Sherlock swallowed thickly. "I'll try to remember that. Goodnight, Felix."

Felix, snuggling up against his pillow, mumbled a soft "Night, Uncle Sherlock" in reply. Such a nickname, once a safety net, was now akin to a stab in the gut. Sherlock quietly stood, switching off the light before he departed.

* * *

Sherlock's tartan dressing gown skimmed around his legs as he turned, with a bag of flour in hand and he stood at the worktop, ready to receive instructions from Felix who, standing beside Sherlock, had seemingly marked himself as the leader of this particular endeavour. Slowly, he read out from the recipe book propped up on the worktop.

"Okay, we need 100g of flour exactly. Are you doing it exactly, Uncle Sherlock?"

"Wouldn't do it any other way," he said with a smooth, amused grin. "You can check if you like."

He stepped back as Felix moved over and reached up on tiptoe, clasping onto the worktop, eyeballing the glowing blue numbers of the scales. In an act of pure indulgence, Sherlock carefully spooned the flour into the bowl one at a time, listening as Felix counted the numbers under his breath, an excited smile appearing as the numbers periodically increased. The pair of them, concentrated as they were on their adventures in cooking, entirely failed to hear her footsteps, or even see her when she stopped in the kitchen doorway and absorbed the sight of her friend and her son cooking together—which, she had to admit, was not a sight she might've believed she'd ever see.

"Have the lice been vanquished then?" she asked lightly. As one, the two paused and turned their heads. Sherlock's mouth flicked up into a smile and he nodded as Felix broke into a grin and shoved his way past Sherlock, zooming towards her and she dropped into a crouch, laughing when he threw his arms around her neck.

"Uncle Sherlock killed them all!" he declared and Molly smiled, drawing her son in for another hug.

"Well then, Uncle Sherlock is very brave," she said and looking, she didn't fail to notice the minute roll of Sherlock's eyes as he whipped up the batter before he deftly poured the batter into the waiting frying pan. Standing, she patted at Felix's back. "And so are you, come to think of it. Go and watch telly for a bit, sweetie – I'll help Uncle Sherlock with the pancakes."

"Not that I need it," Sherlock said, still smiling as Felix ran from the room.

"Bit of an indulgence," she remarked, nodding to the pancake currently bubbling away. Sherlock smirked and wrapped a tea towel around the handle, lifting the pan off the hob.

"Considering I had to retrieve over 60 lice from Felix's hair last night…"

"Ah, okay." Molly tucked her hands against her hips. "So this is _your_ treat, not Felix's."

"No, it's Felix's too." With a flourish, he flipped the pancake. His smirk widened when it made a perfect landing.

"Consulting detective _and_ pancake flipper," Molly said coolly, but a small giggle bled out from underneath her tongue all the same. Sherlock grinned, setting the pan back on the hob.

"How did the weekend go?"

"With Donald? It was – lovely actually. Really enjoyed myself." The faintest shade of pink blossomed in her cheeks at her words, and Sherlock's grin grew just that little bit more slack. He chose to focus on the pancake.

Molly pressed her back against the worktop, leaning her head against the overhead cupboard. "Um, I'm actually going to go back, pretty soon. About a fortnight, maybe?"

"I suppose I'll be called upon to babysit Felix again."

"No, there'll – there'll be no need of that." She let out a breath and folded her arms over her chest. Excited, that's what she was. Excited but nervous. He'd seen that expression only once before; and about a month later, she had been pregnant. She spoke and his suspicions were confirmed. His chest tightened. "I was going to take Felix there – with Donald – as a sort of trial run, really. That's the best way I can put it. I'm really excited about it. Things are good, things are – moving."

Sherlock said nothing. A few weeks ago, they hadn't even wanted to declare themselves as officially dating, and now they were thinking of moving in together? Either the cottage had been impressive, or Donald had been, or perhaps the thin mountain air had drained her mind of the ability to make a proper decision.

"And his divorce holds no relation to this decision then?" His tone was far bitterer than he'd intended, but he could find little regret in his words, or the way he'd said them. She was making a mistake, and the sooner she saw that, the better. He fixed her with a stare, and she gradually straightened up.

"What's that supposed to mean, Sherlock?"

"The man lost his wife and his children only a few months ago, and now he wants to move in with you? There's clearly some sort of need to substitute there – I'm surprised that you didn't see it sooner."

"No." She shook her head, her movements growing increasingly short, clipped and quick. "You can't ruin this Sherlock – not this time."

He snorted. "I never ruined your relationships. The idea of purposefully 'ruining' something would entail some active involvement on my part."

"You—" Seething, she sighed and pinched at the bridge of her nose.

"As far I can remember, all I'm guilty of is pointing out your inability to choose a suitable partner," Sherlock continued.

" _What?_ " She rounded on him, her cheeks flushing red. "So it's my fault? Again! Oh, you're so bloody predictable sometimes. Every time, every time you act like an arsehole, I get the blame for it!"

"You don't exactly make it _easy_ for yourself…"

"Because I always have to do what you don't!" she hissed. "I've lost count of the amount of times I've apologised on your behalf. Tell me, have you ever once apologised to anyone, of your own accord, for anything you've done? And don't use John and Mary's wedding as evidence, because pointing out something people already know isn't an apology!"

"Christmas, 2011. I apologised to you then."

"That doesn't immediately absolve you of all the other shit you've done! You know what? You have never bloody well changed." She was lashing out now, spitting and snarling out truths she had no doubt always brushed to one side for the one day she could release them. "Seven years, and you're still exactly the same as you always were."

"You've hardly changed either _Molly_." He spat out her name with misplaced venom. "You're still a pathologist; you still have an astonishingly poor ability in regards to choosing a boyfriend. Admit it – the only thing that's really changed is the fact that you gave birth to a child. Other than that, you are still the same person you were. And you still think that having Donald around will change that?"

Her gaze dropped, and her cheeks paled.

"At least I'm trying," she mumbled, worrying at her lip. Seven years, and he still couldn't shut his mouth fast enough.

"Molly…" It was a tentative olive branch, but understandably not enough. She'd spewed the truth of her own frustrations; he'd just been petty and personal. She shook her head at his voice, quickly wiping at her eyes.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "For looking after Felix and – making breakfast with him."

That was the end of it. No more to it. There was a small knock at the kitchen door and a smile stretched across Molly's lips when Felix stepped inside. She turned. His innocent, inquisitive look showed that he hadn't heard their argument.

"Is Uncle Sherlock staying for breakfast?"

"No, sweetie," she said sweetly. "It's very polite of you to ask, but Uncle Sherlock's got lots of things to attend to today."

"Mm. Things." Swiftly, he departed from the kitchen. When the flat door closed behind him ten minutes later, Felix's goodbye ringing in his ears, Molly didn't bat an eyelid.

* * *

"I don't know Mary, it's just something – I can't really put it into words, you know?" Tucking her feet under herself, Molly sipped at her wine. "I mean, when I first met the man, I was totally head over heels for him but then everything happened, over the years, and I just sort of – accepted that nothing would ever happen. Trust me; it's so much _easier_ to be in love with a bloke when you know nothing's going to happen. Then he comes back after two years and yeah, sure, the whole Tom thing was… unwise of me, I'll grant him that. And yeah, I did pretty much expect him to deduce Tom right there and then – or just ignore him. Or maybe do a combination of both! He's bloody well capable of it. But he comes back and is all chivalrous and all 'oh I hope you're very happy' about it all – and since when is Sherlock Holmes ever chivalrous? I remember when I told him about my plan – you know, to get pregnant – the man went as white as a sheet! A far cry from how he'd behaved when he learned of my engagement to Tom. It's just so… weird. One minute, he's distant and snappish with me – but I can cope with that, I've had way worse attitudes off my sister. Another minute, it's like we're glued to the bloody hip and he's telling me not to go out with that person, reeling off this, like, laundry list of what's wrong with them. Okay, so that helped when I inadvertently dated a psychopath, but at other times, it's just so damn odd? I think that's why I was – at first – kind of hesitant at having him and Donald meet. What if he'd said something horrible to him? So when he said nothing, I was – I was pleased. I'm sure I was. Of course, he then he tells me I should slow it down with Donald! Right back to square one! He's just… so _infuriating!_ To think he can dictate my love life. And how many girlfriends has he had? Urgh. Eleven years I've known the bloody man, and I still can't get a handle on him – tell me, just how fair is that?"

Molly waved a hand. "No, actually, don't answer that. In fact, just don't talk about him."

"Wouldn't dream about it." Mary sipped at her wine, swallowing a smile and silently wondered just when her friend was going to realise exactly what the reason for her confusion actually _was._

* * *

The heavy weight of the slow melody clung to the walls of 221b and John Watson inevitably cursed himself for having picked such a melodramatic friend. He slammed the door closed, and Sherlock had the temerity to look bored by his arrival. The pair of them settled into their chairs, but Sherlock continued to hold onto his violin, his fingers tracing over the strings to pluck at random, irrelevant notes.

"Any new cases come up lately?" Nothing. Only a blank look and more snatches of notes. John shifted in his seat. "Any progress on the _current_ cases?"

"Take a look for yourself." He nodded towards the wall where sheaves of paper, photographs surrounded a large map. John rose to his feet, peering at it. He stopped when he noticed exactly what was off about it. Every piece of it was empty, free of the familiar impatiently written scribbles. John gave a nod and tucked his hands behind his back. He turned to the consulting detective.

"Mary told me about the argument you had."

"I didn't argue with—" Realising, Sherlock sank back into his chair. More moodily plucked notes made themselves known. "Yes – Molly and I did have a – disagreement."

"Sounds like it was a little bit more than a disagreement, Sherlock. Assume it was over Felix."

"No," Sherlock said plainly. John blinked.

"Well then – what was it over?" He shifted his weight a little. "Sherlock, have you – you have _told_ Molly, right? That you… Oh my God."

Preposterous as the situation was (and was turning out to be), he could do little but laugh and run his hands over his face, leaning forward. His gaze fixed on the carpet, he spoke.

"You didn't tell her." He raised his gaze up to meet Sherlock's. "Did you?"

Sherlock calmly began to examine his violin. "No, I didn't."

"Oh…" John growled. "Sherlock, I know you're a genius but you – you are a moron. A _selfish_ moron at that. You are a parent. You don't have a choice in that. It doesn't matter if you 'don't want to be the Viking' – you have a duty, if not to Molly then to Felix, to tell the damn truth. Otherwise – well, you'll just end up as Uncle Sherlock for the rest of your life."

"That wouldn't be such a bad thing," Sherlock admitted quietly. John took a step back. He knew that Sherlock could be cold, but never that cold. John shook his head. No. Not cold. _Careful._ Always careful, never to involve himself with sentiment. It was why he'd turned to drugs, why he had danger nights, why he constantly spent his life fixing other people's problems. He could observe the sentiment of others, but to touch, to interact, to realise his own sentiment? Impossible.

"You're scared. Aren't you?" His friend's head snapped up. "You don't want to say anything because you know you'll end up losing Molly. That's it, isn't it? For fuck's sake – Jesus Christ. And I promised myself I wouldn't interfere… Do you want to know something, Sherlock?"

"Go on then," Sherlock sighed. "You'll put it upon yourself to tell me anyway."

"If you don't tell Molly, or just say something, then I will."

Sherlock started up at this, darting towards John. "That's an invasion of my privacy, and Molly's—"

"If you want to talk about invasions of privacy Sherlock," John spat out, "then think back to the decision you made seven years ago!"

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his breathing grew heavy, but he couldn't say anything. There was no retort to be had. Eyeballing him, John flexed his shoulders, his features twitching.

"I'll say this slowly and clearly: you can either lose Molly, or lose both her and Felix. Which—"

"Goodbye John." Hurriedly picking up and shoving on his coat, Sherlock pushed past John, whispers of irritated curses reeling off his tongue. Watching him leave, John felt himself smile.

* * *

Sherlock ran up the steps two at a time towards Molly's flat. The knock he levelled at her door was rapid and quick and the door soon swung open. Felix beamed up at him, fitted out in a well-ironed shirt and a dark blue bow tie.

"Uncle Sherlock!" Yes, there was the stab, right against his gut. _Uncle Sherlock._ He couldn't do anything but smile when Felix immediately wrapped his arms around his legs. "Mum's having a party – it's really boring – but now you're here!"

Molly's laughter sounded down the entrance hall, followed by the woman in question. "Felix, what are you—" Her laughter and speech soon died away on seeing him stood there.

"Molly," he started, gently prising Felix's arms from around his legs. "I-I need to speak to you. About something rather urgent."

She shook her head and stepped back.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but I can't – deal with any – emotional stuff at the moment." She brushed back a wisp of hair from her face, holding out her hand towards Felix. "Come here, sweetie – c'mon."

"Why don't you want to talk to Uncle Sherlock, Mum?"

"I do want to talk to him," Molly said quickly, taking his hand and leading him down the hallway. "But just – not right now! Now, let's get you a drink, you must be so thirsty—"

" _Molly._ " She finally ground to a halt, turning towards him. Sherlock squared his shoulders. Even if he did this right, she'd still be wearing an expression far cooler than the one she wore at that moment. "I – we – need to talk."

"So, what's going on here?" Sherlock inwardly groaned. Donald had to have some sort of homing device towards tense situations. It was the only way that could explain his innate ability to interrupt just about everything. Donald grinned, touching at Molly's waist. "Hope I didn't interrupt anything!"

"No," Sherlock said, with a false smile. "Clearly I was the… interrupter."

"Ah, no worries. The whole family's come down – maybe you'd like to meet them?"

So he'd staged a family gathering, and was obviously excited about the event, going by the use of body language and the dilation of pupils at least. Molly, by contrast, was more nervous—a near constant touching or series of touches against her ring finger showed that clearly she knew, or at least had an inkling, of what this whole union of family was for. _Do something._ John's voice echoed inside his head. _He's definitely about to._

"Sorry Molly, but I do need to borrow you for just a moment." He couldn't wait for an answer or any sort of protest. Advancing forward, Sherlock took her by the hand and steered her away from Donald. He heard her babble an apology to the man, one that immediately stopped, replaced by a fierce glare when he shut the flat door behind them.

"I don't," he said quietly, and he swallowed thickly. "I don't expect to be forgiven for what I have to say."

"Sherlock, what are you on about?"

" _I'm_ Felix's father." The confession came out as a sort of blurt, and the silence which followed it was almost numbing. He had to say something, had to just _explain._ "It happened during your insemination party. I was drunk, and I—"

Her slap to his cheek was quick, to the point and well overdue. Her mouth hung open in shock, as if he himself had just slapped her. In a way, he had. Not often that one learned that the person they had been in love with for years, the person they now believed to be their friend, was actually the father to their child. Her hands fluttered over her stomach and she held herself.

"Just repeat that. No explanation. Just – what you said."

Sherlock fixed his gaze onto hers. Her eyes were wet with tears.

"I'm Felix's father. I switched the donation made by Donald seven years ago." He shrugged helplessly. "Felix is my son."

"Mum?" Sherlock's heart plummeted, and his stomach did about sixty somersaults in a row. Focused so entirely on her and the consequences that his actions had brought upon her, he hadn't stopped to think what the consequences would be for the one his misdemeanour had had a hand in creating.

"Oh God, Felix!" Gasping, Molly ran towards him, but she was too slow. Turning on his heels, Felix sprinted down the hallway, only stopping when Donald, laughing, clearly thinking this all some kind of joke, grabbed at his shoulder.

"Hey, hey! What's wrong little dude?"

"Gerroff!" Felix snapped. "You're not my dad – _he_ is!"

Donald's gaze fell on Sherlock. Wrenching himself from the now frozen Donald's grip, Felix continued to run, slamming his bedroom door behind him. Sherlock made to step forward, but Molly immediately whipped around. Her rage was palpable.

"You have caused enough damage today."

"He's my son, Molly."

"He's my son too," she hissed. Her voice shook, but the determination, the decision that had already been made, was easy to hear. "And I raised him for seven years. So forgive me for thinking I just might be able to handle this better than you."

The door swung closed once more. Part of him wanted to barge back into the flat and apologise, like he had done all those years ago during that stupid, stupid Christmas party, but this situation was so much more than a badly misjudged deduction. It ran, it cut, deeper. So he did what she wanted him to do: he left.

* * *

It was safe to say that her relationship with Donald was over. Much as she loathed admitting it, Sherlock had been right. He hadn't exactly put it in the most comforting way, but she was a rebound. An opportunity for him to replace his lost family. For a while, she had played with the thought that she didn't mind being such a thing. After all, it had allowed her a chance to know the man who'd played a part in creating a son she adored, and it allowed Felix a chance to bond with his biological father. Well, that had all gone to pot. She should've known—should've known that with Sherlock Holmes in her life, things would never be conventional, nor would they ever go to plan.

Why couldn't he have just told her? What had made him wait for so long? Seven years, she'd spent exchanging birthday cards and Christmas greetings and e-mails and he hadn't once thought to even give her a hint as to the truth of her son's conception. Maybe he hadn't remembered. He had said he was drunk; and if he'd remained as drunk as he had been when they'd spoken to one another in Meena's bedroom, then that was a definite possibility.

Sighing, she dumped the empty wine bottles and leftover party food into the bin and, after washing her hands, knocked quietly on Felix's bedroom door. It was unlocked, and there was no reply, so she figured it was safe to step inside. She found him curled up in the middle of his bed. His stuffed lion was clutched to his chest. It was astonishing, just how much he was like his father. It wasn't just the untameable curls, it was the demeanour. The physical isolation; the lack of true eye contact when scared or nervous or confused. That was all Sherlock.

"Sherlock brought this for you, didn't he?" She couldn't refer to him as his father, not yet. Not until Felix was ready could she ever do that. Felix nodded and she moved forward. Silently, she knelt by the bed. Giving a soft sigh, she reached forward and traced her finger over the soft fur of the toy. Playfully, she pinched at its ear. She earned only a brief giggle from Felix for her troubles. That was to be expected.

"What name did you give it?" she asked, folding her hands together, tucking them underneath her chin. "I never asked."

Felix shrugged. "He doesn't have one yet."

"Oh. Okay." She managed a smile. "I suppose it makes him rather unique, not having a name."

"Mum…"

"Mm?"

Chewing at his top lip, Felix's eyes flicked up to meet hers.

"I'm glad Sherlock's my dad."

* * *

Mary stirred her tea slowly, looking at her husband. She took a sip, stepping away from the worktop. "I can't believe you interfered."

"I know."

"John, you said we shouldn't."

"I _know._ " John groaned, drawing his hands over his hair. Almost in disbelief, he shook his head. "God, this is a mess."

Mary sighed and parked herself opposite her husband. "How's Sherlock?"

"No idea." John sank further into the kitchen chair, dropping his phone onto the table. "I've texted him, but he hasn't responded."

The doorbell rang, the sound harsh and protracted. Mary raised an eyebrow and set down her tea.

"I think that might be him responding." Where John gave a second groan and dropped his head onto the wooden kitchen table, she rose to her feet and headed towards the door. Leaned heavily against the doorway, Sherlock stared at her, eyes glazed over and reddened. She didn't fail to miss the whisky bottle in his coat pocket.

"You told her."

Sherlock heaved himself up to standing. "Of course I did. No thanks to your husband," he muttered and he stumbled through the door. She only just about caught him when he tripped ungracefully over the doorstop (a hedgehog, it had been Ruby's idea and quite a charming one at the time). Mumbling his thanks, Sherlock propped himself up against a handy wall. Mary set about locking the door.

"You know," he grumbled, "in being honest, I lost her. I lost Molly. And Felix."

Mary gave the smallest of smiles.

"I know how that feels." Her statement was simple, a standard consolation people often tripped out when they could think of nothing to say, but it still carried an all-too familiar weight. She tapped at his shoulder and he reluctantly peeled himself away from the wall. "You can sleep here tonight. I'll make up a bed for you on the sofa."

* * *

31 days trawled by. For all that time, for all those days, Sherlock Holmes' relationship with Molly Hooper remained one of silence. Contact devolved to become small mutterings of questions about how the other was doing before being immediately taken back, covered up by claims they didn't really care anyway. The staff at St. Bart's eventually grew used to the peace brought about by Sherlock's suddenly stoic attitude, quickly learning to direct any queries or questions towards John Watson or Greg Lestrade.

Molly meanwhile, tried to answer Felix's curiosity about his biological father with enough grace as she could manage. While cheered by knowledge about his father, Felix obviously sensed the discomfort felt by his mother, for he soon downsized the frequency of his questions from six a day to one—or two, if his curiosity proved too strenuous to squeeze into simply one question. It was both a heartening and disheartening thing to witness.

Sherlock Holmes was his father, and it was Felix's right, as his biological child, to be able to know about the man with her own… _feelings_ getting in the way. For that was what she had. Of course she had feelings for Sherlock. However much she might've not thought about him when she was living and raising Felix in Suffolk, her feelings had kicked straight back into gear the instant he'd walked into that bloody coffee shop, looking like a lost but extremely well-dressed lamb.

Lazily, she kicked at the fallen leaves by the school fence, her hands sunk deep inside her coat. The weather had cooled rapidly over the last few days, after the searing sun of the last summer heat wave. Consequently, it hadn't taken long for the weather reporters to switch from near constant warnings about the use of sunscreen to sombre reports of heavy rain and potential flooding.

"Hey sweetie!" Molly waved eagerly as the school bell rang loud and clear and pupils flooded out from the doors. Felix, as ever, walked at his own pace, only accelerating when he saw her waving. Exchanging the usual conversation about school, the two of them soon began their stroll home.

"Mum, I've got a question." Aha. Molly shoved her hands into her coat pockets. The daily One Question, always asked on their way home from school without fail. So far, he had asked about how long she had known him, what Sherlock had been like when they'd first met and what traits he shared with his father (that particular answer had taken a good twenty minutes). This time, it would probably be about Sherlock's career and how he got into it, or how they initially met.

"Why haven't you talked to Dad yet?"

That was certainly unexpected. She shrugged. "There are a lot of reasons. Oh, wait – you've dropped your gloves."

It was a pitiful attempt to dodge the question, she knew that and Felix knew that. Scooping up the gloves, she moved back towards him and bent down, pulling the gloves over his frozen fingers.

"There. All better now," she said with a smile, and she touched at his nose. Felix smiled briefly, tilting his head expectantly.

"Mum – are you scared?"

"I am." (She wasn't about to lie to her son, not now.) "Not of your dad, but… something else entirely. Now, my turn for a question – you said you were happy that Sher–your dad was your dad. Why?"

"He makes things better," Felix answered, his tone matter-of-fact. Molly sighed and absentmindedly clasped her fingers over his hands, stroking at his palm with her thumb.

"Yeah." She smiled. "Like Batman."

"No – like a dad."

Her head snapped up. Such a quiet, simple observation but one that couldn't help but be incredibly perceptive. Still, she couldn't expect anything less from her son. He was half a Holmes, after all; and, as she'd learnt over the years, through both her own experiences and the infuriatingly intelligent consulting detective who swallowed up half of her time, sometimes the smallest observations were the most correct.

* * *

"Sherlock, it's been a week since you solved something. You need a case. At least admit that."

"One of your minions could do the job blindfold, Mycroft. And if you're thinking of using 'nickpicker', don't. It isn't an allowable word."

Mycroft glared down at the Scrabble board between them and promptly swore under his breath. Sherlock smirked.

"Check the dictionary if you don't believe me."

Mycroft glowered, raising an eyebrow at his impertinent little brother. "Don't try my patience. Are you going to take this case or not, Sherlock?"

"Who's winning?"

Mycroft turned in his seat and Sherlock shot to his feet on hearing the visitor to their game. Molly stood in the middle of the doorway, her hair undone and tangled from the harsh autumn weather, a bag wedged under her arm and her coat folded over her arms.

"Fine," Sherlock said, glancing to his brother. "I'll consider the case."

Smiling a somewhat knowledgeable smile, Mycroft clutched tighter at his umbrella and gracefully rose out of the chair, nodding once to Molly. He managed to look annoyingly triumphant when he quietly departed.

"Tea?"

"I'm not stopping."

Two sentences, two speakers, spoken at one time and both causing the speakers in question to stop and fidget, their nerves preventing them from even daring to move from the safety net that silence provided. _Anything but small talk_ , John urged and Sherlock gave a minute shake of the head. Now was not the time for panicked internal monologues.

"I've – uh – been thinking." She entered the flat as if she were a stranger, and, truth be told, she was. For all the time he had spent camped out at her flat, there had only ever been two occasions in which she had been inside 221b. On the first, he had criticised her appearance, and on the second, it was to thank her for keeping the secret of his existence. There had never been a time where 221b acted as neutral ground.

She settled on the sofa, but he continued to stand. John, buried away in his mind palace, screamed at him to sit down, that he was intimidating her by standing up, but he was soon shut up when she, rubbing her palms nervously at her knees (a habit she'd always had), spoke up.

"I'm Felix's mother, yes. But you're – you're his father. He needs both of us. I just – I look at him every day now and think—"

"Think what?"

"How the hell did I not see it?!" She laughed, and he cracked a smile at the sound. "You and him – you're basically twins!"

"He's got your eyes."

Pink spotted her cheeks. "Thank you. But that isn't the point! He's basically you! I should've seen it – surely I should've seen it…"

"To be fair, you didn't know I had replaced the donation," Sherlock pointed out. "It is, after all, a fairly implausible notion. It's only because you know now that—"

"That I'm starting to see the similarities." Molly nodded. "I know – guess I'm focusing on stupid stuff. Stops me getting to the main point."

"Which is?"

"Felix misses you. And… I do too," she added, her voice growing quieter. He didn't bite back his following smile. It wasn't exactly ' _champagne and fireworks_ ', more a crumb. A crumb of hope for something.

"Anyway," she said, standing. "I have to go. I left Felix with Mrs Hudson – and there's only so long she can entertain him with the telly and biscuits."

"Right. Do you want me to—" He cleared his throat, hesitating. _Hesitating._ Hadn't he got out of the habit of starting sentences he had no idea how to finish. In the presence of Molly Hooper, apparently not. He sighed. "Escort you, maybe?"

Her dimples deepened as she considered the thought, but she gave a small shake of the head. "No, I think I can manage the route to Mrs Hudson's – but you can escort me to the door, if you like."

A second crumb, perhaps a little bigger than the last. With a nod from him, they walked together the short distance to the doorway.

"Well, that was nice." She was teasing him, and he found that he didn't really care a jot. He leaned against the doorway, watching as she pivoted slightly on her heels, hitching her bag onto her shoulder. Waiting for something, she was waiting for something.

"You wouldn't be interested in some coffee at all?" he asked. "Perhaps next week?"

She considered him, hugging her coat tighter to her chest. Her eyes danced, her smile widened and she stepped forward. Reaching up on tiptoes, her eyelids fluttering closed, she tilted her head and pressed her lips to his in a light, sweet kiss that made him feel really rather special indeed. In his mind, he could hear the distant, muffled sound of John's cheering.

Molly drew away and wore a smile that could plausibly act as a visual definition of the phrase 'cat that got the cream'.

"Coffee," she said, "would be a wonderful start."

From below them, the panicked babble of Mrs Hudson sounded, mingled with the cheerful denials of Felix who duly bounded up the steps two at a time and on seeing Sherlock, gasped.

"Dad!" A far better experience on the ears than Uncle Sherlock. The sound of Felix's footsteps thundered up the stairs and father and son duly engulfed one another in the tightest hug they could manage. As he gently held Felix, Sherlock caught Molly's eye. Scrunching up her nose, still with that wide smile on her lips, lighting up her features, she stuck out her tongue. Yep. Definitely more than a crumb.


End file.
